


mending

by DrSchaf



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crazy Rick Grimes, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Michonne dies, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 07, Slow Burn, but they were in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12107043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Sometimes he wonders if there's anything he wouldn't do for the man and then, after, he's scared that one of these days, Rick will have the same thought. Maybe he already did. Ain't the first time he offered to die for or with him, and it ain't something he should've done once, but he has no idea how to stop wanting it, almost wishing it was out of obligation. It ain't. It's about something else, something more shameful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set directly after the Season 7 finale. In case you didn't read the tags: Michonne dies. I think of it as a complication from her head trauma, but the scene isn't graphic. 
> 
> Updates will be Tuesdays and Fridays.
> 
> P.S.: I finished writing this before the trailer came out, but it's not an AU until Season 8 starts, right? :D

When it happens, he's nearby.

Rick doesn't know, nobody sees him lurking in the corner and being overall useless now that there's no one to shoot any longer, nothing to hunt, nothing to _do_ except to pretend he isn't fleeing from whoever tries to initiate a conversation, acting busy while they all know him and they all know he's got nothing to do anywhere with anyone anymore. It's pathetic and he's doing it anyway, so he sees it happening right from the moment the commotion starts.  
  
It's over within minutes.

Shaking off Tara's hand, Rick turns, eyes wide when he looks over to the corner he's lurking in. Intruding - but once the yelling and scrambling and shoving started, it was too late to leave the room. Now Rick looks straight at him like he knew where he was all along, and Daryl gnaws on his thumb since that's the only thing he can come up with nowadays. It doesn't last more than a second or two, but it's still enough to turn his stomach the wrong way.

Rick nods, looking calm like this, any of it, was part of his goddamn plans.  
  
“Dad,” Carl says, his mouth a flat line and the one eye deliberately turned away from where Tara fumbles with a blanket, clumsily covering up Michonne's body.

Another grave to dig.

The sight of it finally gets him moving, and Daryl rushes forward quick enough to startle Carl into stumbling back. “Rick,” he says, and then he's empty already. They've been here before, several times - if one counts Jessie - and he hadn't known what to say then either. He grips Rick's shoulder, squeezing tight and letting go again when Rick sways closer and then right back again.

Rick doesn't stop moving until he's out the infirmary, still with that awful calm face, and Daryl can't blame him, he can't, and he doesn't know much about proper reactions and proper grieving, but this—it's not right. Rick's face isn't supposed to look like that. When it did, nothing good ever came of it.  
  
Daryl turns to Carl, gripping his neck and letting him be stoic until Carl doesn't even blink away his tears anymore, he just stops blinking altogether. That he can understand.

*

The pressing feeling lasts until he has to consciously stop himself from flinching whenever he looks in Rick's direction. Rick is very—productive. And sane.

This time around, a bit like after the Wolves came, the streets and houses and fences and grounds are littered with people. People-bodies, not dead bodies, and while he never had a problem with getting rid of people-bodies before, certainly not with killing people either, it gets tedious after a while, and he finds himself longing for a goddamn walker to burn. As odd as that is, it's not as odd as Rick directing the whole thing. He stands amidst the chaos, the bodies, the wounded, herds of people not belonging with them and still having come to their rescue, and directs each and every one of them to a task.

Ezekiel leaves quickly and Carol follows behind only to come back on the same day, the corners of her mouth pulled down and nodding at him in a way that has him fleeing again. Maggie leaves with the Hilltop people after getting themselves a few guns of their own, and Daryl can't blame them for it, but it still leaves an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach to see guns and able people go just because they want to go home.

This is a home, too. He guesses. This is where Negan came and where he threatened to bash in Carl's head, making Rick watch—but it ain't right they're leaving. Safer in numbers and all of that.

On day two, things get shady when Rick stands in the middle of the street, nodding at everyone passing by and looking for all the world like he's waiting for something. Whatever it is, it can't be good, and Daryl spends about an hour keeping him in his line of sight, if only out of the corners of his eyes, until he's uneasy enough that his legs start wandering over on their own accord.

“Rick,” he says. Maybe he's hiding behind his hair, but since Rick gawks at whatever he's gawking at, no one would know. And there's no answer. “Rick, what you're doin'?”

Rick turns his head. “Cleaning the streets. If we wait much longer, the smell will drive us out of our homes.”

Daryl nods and keeps on nodding for a bit. “How about you go sit down for a while? Let us keep workin' on it,” he finally says, curling his fingers around the not yet familiar strap of a crossbow he decidedly does not like. He huffs and looks up at Rick ignoring him and nodding at Tara instead. “You listenin'?”

“I am,” Rick says at once. “The fence at the gate still needs work, can you take a look? I can't leave here.”

Legs moving before he allows them to, Daryl turns and then he turns right back and glances at Rick not even looking in his direction but staring ahead like a crazy person instead. “You're gonna take a break, after?”

There's no answer or acknowledgment that Rick heard him, and Daryl leaves, turning towards the fences and keeping himself occupied until it's getting dark. Then he finds something else to do, helping to hoist bodies onto carts and hammering nails into wood and neatly avoiding shoulder clasps until his hands ache and his head feels fuzzy and he finally turns back—to Rick standing on the same spot where he left him.

The endurance of that man.

Before he can reach him, Gabriel steps up, clasping Rick's shoulder and probably talking in that quiet, calm and half-whispering way he does, raising Daryl's hackles without any reason. Rick doesn't seem to notice he's there.

Unsure, Daryl watches and waits for either success or the need to step in—Rick shrugs the hand off, turns his empty stare on Gabriel and starts to herd him away. Daryl rushes forward and grips Rick's shoulder. “Hey, man-”

“He's supposed to take care of Judith and he's wandering around leaving her god knows where. It's your job to take care of her, how am I supposed to do mine if you don't do yours? You think this is unimportant, that I can allow myself to not focus on the task at hand-”

Gabriel leaves with a sedate nod, and Daryl glares after him, waiting until Rick runs out of breath to take a big one himself.

“You done?”

“No.”

Daryl drops his hand, unsure again when the dead eyes land on him despite having been unsure when they _weren't_ on him. This is getting out of hand. “You gotta rest.” He nods and starts walking.

For a few steps, Rick follows, but then he stops again. “I'm not done here.”

“Yeah, you are.” Daryl jerks his head towards Rick's house. “The work ain't gonna go nowhere.”

Rick shrugs, curls sweaty, eyes too bright and the shirt he's been wearing for days giving off an ominous stench, and Daryl's heart clenches with something that could be pity. “Wouldn't be too sure of that,” Rick says, shrugging again without averting his eyes. It's fucking eerie, but he gets moving and walks with him all the way to the house where Daryl falls behind, gladly letting Carol be the one to herd the man to the bathroom.

That also gives him enough time to flee the conversation she sure as hell wants to have, so he stays at the door until they trudge upstairs, and then he leaves and picks the next now-empty house he can find, throwing himself on the couch.

Then he gets up again, marches back to Rick's house, and flings himself on that couch instead, and then he frowns until he falls asleep, keeping an ear on the way Rick's boots thud over the floor when he walks in circles. Apparently, that's his idea of 'getting rest'.

*

The thudding keeps up until Daryl builds it into his dream, and he doesn't wake at once when the boots trample even louder. It's the cocking of a gun that gets his ass out of bed. Out of couch.

Rick marches past him, shotgun in his hand and Python in the holster next to a suspiciously familiar knife, the fucker, and then he's at the door and opening it already.

“What you're doin'?”

Rick stops. “I'm gonna kill him,” he says, turning his stare on him. “Come on.”

“What?” Swallowing against the gross taste in his mouth, Daryl sits up with slow movements, trying for non-threatening while he knows he looks like a pile of shit warmed over. Even Rick looks better, now that he finally washed off whatever clung to him the day before. “I'm not-”

“One of us has to, right? Sooner or later.” Rick steps closer, nodding. “You know any arguments why 'later' would be better? Then tell me.”

“That's not- Rick, c'mon.” He stands, heart beating fast when Rick stays where he is, looking calm but radiating craziness like the best of them. “The funeral's today.”

“So?”

Fucking hell. “Lemme take this.” He reaches over and takes the shotgun from Rick's hand without any resistance, immediately feeling like something is stuck in his throat. He needs screaming Rick, foaming Rick, not that caricature-like statue, calm and nodding and smiling. “Rick.” He reaches out again, even slower, face warm when his fingers fumble with the knife under Rick's belt for a moment too long.

Rick keeps track of the movement. “You're gonna take the Python, too?”

“Nah.” Stepping back with both the shotgun and the knife, his reservoir of tactics is as good as empty. For good measure, he licks his lips.

“Guess I thought different of you,” Rick says with a huff and then he turns, walking towards the door without any of the vigor from before.

He shouldn't—it's just crazy-talk. Rick never makes sense when he's like that. “What's that mean?” he asks anyhow, grinding his jaw when it comes out too quiet.

“I thought you'd want him dead after everything he did to you.” Rick shrugs, standing in the open door and looking out at the street still splattered with blood.

The shot wound flares up, unwanted. Daryl glares at the back of Rick's head. “Course I do.”

First Dwight. After, Negan.

“Yeah?” With a smile, Rick looks back over his shoulder. “That's why you're taking the guns, cause you want him dead?” He pauses. “I guess that's your choice, then. I just thought it would be different, after everything. I didn't think he'd _get_ to you.”

Thank fuck, Rick leaves after that.

Daryl stands rooted to the spot, waiting until his fingers are numb from clenching his fists so tightly, and then he stands some more, willing his heartbeat down. It's crazy-talk, nothing more. Michonne died and Rick's losing it, and it's okay for him to lose it. It's expected. Rick never included him in his cruelties, but some day, there's a first time for everything. He guesses.

After a few more minutes, Daryl gets moving and closes the door, purposely not taking a look outside to see what Rick is up to. It's not his problem. If the man likes to stand in the middle of the street - fine.

He goes upstairs to clean himself up and get some clothes that actually belong to him, only feeling a bit stupid about showering before lowering dozens of bodies into the ground. The dead don't care, but still. It's the decent thing to do.

When it's all over and done and the mass of people starts wandering back to their homes, Daryl stalls, the smell of fresh earth all around him, the smell of death all around him, and tries to ignore Rick fidgeting all the way back at the fence where he spent most of the funeral. After he was late to begin with. Without so much as looking in Carl's or Judith's direction.

With a sinking feeling, Daryl blinks down at the numerous crosses and earthy bumps of the new graves, feeling numb. Out of the corners of his eyes, he keeps watch—Rick swings around, movements jerky like he's a machine, and starts marching towards the gate.

He's after him at once, way too light on his feet without the weight of his crossbow, but Rick is fucking quick on his feet, almost sprinting by the time he pushes out of the gates and towards wherever the fuck he thinks he's going. “Rick!”

Sidetracking a walker hanging at a spike, Rick darts off between the demolished cars and into the shrubs, shoulders straight and hand on his hip. There's nothing except the knife most definitely belonging to _him_. The fucker.

“Changed your mind?” Rick calls, marching on like he's got a specific goal in his mind, and that can't be a good thing. Twigs are snapping left and right, and soon it's going to be dark and every damn walker around will hear him and he's got only one damn knife. A stolen knife.

Daryl ducks under a low-hanging branch, weighing his options.

It's not right, of course, but Rick's got every right to be not-right. Right? He lost the woman he loves, again. It's like curse clinging to him or some shit, happening over and over and over again.

“If you're not with me, I'd appreciate it if you stopped following.”

Enough with the weighing. Daryl jumps over a fallen log and makes to sprint, almost landing on his ass when Rick swings around the second he's behind him. Rick's back collides with the nearest tree and their foreheads clash together with a dull sound.

As soon as Daryl is able to see through the pain, he sees the man smiling at him. _Smiling_.

“The hell you're doin', man?”

“Told you,” Rick says roughly.

“No, you didn't. You talked shit and now you're wanderin' around out here doin' who knows what.”

Rick bumps into him chest first. “I'm gonna do what needs to be done. Are you gonna stop me? You think you can?”

Daryl stands frozen, itching to do something without knowing what would help. There's nothing in his head. “You're not makin' sense,” he says, and when that doesn't do anything to wipe that smile off Rick's face, Daryl squares is shoulders. “Yeah, I will.”

“Try-”

He has Rick in a choke-hold in an instant.

Rick kicks back. His heavy boot connects with Daryl's shin, and they struggle, tumbling against the tree. “He needs to die! I can kill him-”

“Hell you can,” Daryl grunts, feeling his skin break where Rick claws at his arm.

“He _needs_ to die!”

Daryl loses his nerve and patience and slams his arm up against Rick's jaw, hopefully making him unable to speak—

The back of Rick's head collides with his nose and Daryl grunts in pain, holding on tighter and pressing forward until Rick stumbles and takes a step forward. He herds him around a bush, arm burning with the strain to keep Rick in his hold.

“Negan needs to die,” Rick presses out, a-fucking-gain.

“Don't tell me about Negan. What you're doin', Rick? What you're _doin_ ' here?” Rick wheezes, pressing back against him, shirt dirty with sweat and bark and earth. Trying for gentle, Daryl lowers his voice. “Think of Carl, man. And your little girl.”

Jerking back, Rick butts his head against his jaw. “I am thinking about them. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know Negan won't let anyone live after what we did?”

This is all wrong.

This is supposed to be grief, not an actual plan. “But, Rick.” After hesitating for a moment, Daryl loosens his arm, but only a bit. “Even if you're lucky, you wouldn't live. No way you'd make it out of there alive.”

There's no more struggle and no more talk.

Rick lets himself be guided back, not objecting to the hold even when they're back in Alexandria. When they reach the house, they stand motionless.

Daryl gnaws on his lip, feeling sweaty and disgusting again with Rick radiating extra warmth against his chest. “You good?” he asks eventually.

“Mh.”

He lets Rick go, watching him trudge upstairs with a heavy feeling in his stomach. At night, he doesn't sleep for a second, pretending he doesn't know shit about anything and especially not about Rick fucking meaning it. 'Plan' his ass. The plan is to die, and that ain't gonna happen on his watch, that's for sure.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Rick comes down, Daryl is ready for it. As soon as the heavy boots start thumping towards him, Daryl leans against the wall, not so stealthily planting himself at the bottom of the stairs and waiting until Rick stops mid-step. They stand in silence, tension rising around them, and Daryl finds himself unable to look up at his friend. He fumbles with the hem of his shirt instead.

“You're gonna do it again?”

“Depends,” Rick says slowly. He steps down until they're almost eye to eye and Daryl has to look at his face after all. “You plan to stop me again? Or are you gonna let me do what needs to be done?”

“I'm not gonna chain you up. Would, if that would make you stay.”

“So you're leaving?” Carl stands in the doorway to the kitchen, face stoic.

With a sigh, Daryl pushes away from the wall. “We're going out.”

“Are we?”

“I hope you make it back, then. Since, you know, I remember how you said it's stupid to go after him alone.” Carl nods, and then he nods some more and turns back to the kitchen.

The tap starts running.

Feeling righteous, Daryl turns back to Rick and raises his eyebrows. “What's it gonna be?”

“We're going?” Rick asks, head cocked, hair standing up every which way and shirt decidedly not clean and—there's no garden to tend to here. Or—there is, but they're at war, fucking crops won't last long enough to get Rick the distraction he needs. Letting him stay cooped up and under observation only ever does so much for his sanity, they all know by now.

Maybe a few days will be enough.

Daryl nods. “You should pack. Some food, your gun, my crossbow?”

“That means we're going?”

Staring at Rick's crazy-pale face, something tugs at his heart. He just got back, there ain't enough reserves in him to deal with this, who's _he_ that he can get Rick back from the brink without having slept in forever—no. It's Rick. He'll find the reserves.

Daryl nods again and gestures upstairs. “Guess it won't hurt bein' out in the woods for a while. Why don't you pack-”

“Woods.”

“Yeah, woods.” Daryl glares, crowding forward until Rick takes a step back up the stairs. “'m not gonna go and kill Negan with you. I ain't gonna be the one tellin' your kids their daddy didn't make it.”

There's a beat of silence. “What if I let you kill Dwight? Right now. You kill him an' get what you want, and after, you come with me and help-”

“You fuckin' serious?” Daryl stops, trying to control his breathing and the sting behind his eyes and the goddamn headache forming, also behind his eyes. “You can't allow me shit, Rick. I'm gonna kill Dwight no matter what. If you think I wouldn't, you're not thinkin' straight.”

“Yeah? How the hell should I know? You haven't told me-”

“Ain't none of your damn business, that's why.”

With flared nostrils, Rick pushes in his space. “Oh, it is, all right. It's my business. The less you say about it, the more I know there can't be any other option than for him to _die_.” He grunts, looking to the side and taking a step back. “They both have to die. We're gonna go and kill them both. That's even better.”

“No,” Daryl stresses, “We're gonna go out-”

Rick waves him off. “Into the woods, yeah, I heard you. What good do you plan to do out there? Think that gets you closer to killing Dwight? If you don't care about Negan.”

Heart in his throat, Daryl points towards the kitchen and lowers his voice. “To get your crazy ass away from here so you have time to get it back together.” Nerves all over the place, he lowers his voice even more. “You're gonna fight me on this?”

There's no answer, but Rick stomps back up, shoulders tense until they disappear around the corner.

“Think it'll help?”

Daryl turns, looking at Carl standing in the doorway again. “Worth a try,” he says with a shrug, face warm for some reason. “You good with that?”

Carl shrugs back, looking at the ceiling as if he can stare right through the plaster and see Rick hopefully packing, maybe climbing out of the window. “Guess so. At least being away won't make it worse.”

Daryl nods, reaching out to grip his shoulder and dropping his hand again before he makes contact.

“I set out some water. There isn't much food left, so...”

“Keep it. I'll hunt.”

From the kitchen, Judith squawks indignantly, and Carl goes back with a last wave, not looking sad or worried or anything he should be. There's Judith to take care of, and Carl just does it. Rick losing it is something he knows, it's familiar territory and he doesn't so much as bat an eyelid at it anymore. And he was fucking close to Michonne too, as close as something to a mother someone can be for that boy nowadays.

Daryl clenches his fists and swallows against the acid rising in his throat, then Rick thankfully comes back down, eyelids drooping.

“I packed some of your stuff, too.”

All right, then. Daryl nods, only a bit antsy about Rick rummaging through his things while he hasn't had the chance to look through them himself. Despite having been home for a few days.

It's nothing worth pointing out or starting a fight over, so he makes a beeline for the kitchen to grab the water, and after, they walk to the armory and get their weapons, steering clear from most of the people willing to stir up a conversation. It probably looks like they're off for a hunt, and that's just fine by him.

When they're out of the gates, they walk aimlessly for the better part of an hour, and something settles in his chest the same way Rick gets increasingly more nervous instead of less, like it's some law of nature, wicked and cruel. Daryl sighs, waiting for the other shoe to drop and, just as a precaution, flexes his fingers in case he has to make use of them by grabbing Rick's by the lapels. Again.

Eventually, Rick stops with a sigh that's entirely too long. With his eyebrows drawn together, he looks confused, standing there and frowning at a tree.

Daryl licks his lips. “Rick,” he says. Nothing. He reaches out and bumps his fist against Rick's shoulder like a goddamn teenager, trying to get him to snap out of it. “You think we're far enough or what?”

“But for what?” Rick smiles at the tree. “For the people back home to miss the gunshot?”

“I- what?”

Rick shrugs. “That's what we're here for, aren't we? You're gonna shoot me?”

“The fuck is your problem, man?” This is way worse than he thought. “No one's gonna shoot nobody. Jesus Christ, Rick.”

“Didn't think so,” Rick says.

Daryl grinds his jaw and fights the urge to solve this the good old way. With his fists. “We're here so you've got somethin' to do instead of standin' on streets scarin' the last of the children who made it out alive of this fuckin' shitshow that is our life now-”

“Okay.”

There's a pause.

“Okay?” Daryl repeats, dumbfounded.

Rick shrugs and starts moving again. After a few seconds, Daryl follows, lost and on edge.

*

When it gets dark, it dawns on him that Rick hasn't said a word since 'Okay', and if he'd known, he would've tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. Or said something in addition. Anything, really, instead of following Rick stomping through the woods with heavy steps, alerting every game and walker for miles. At least they're not bored, but that's the only positive note on this depressing as fuck hike until now.

Out of nowhere, Rick stops in front of a tree and says, “I told her.”

Then he starts walking again.

Daryl is ready to latch onto it with vigor, but before he can open his mouth, he hears the snap of twigs and a carrying conversation, and even though Rick must've heard it too, he marches on without turning around. Daryl huffs, tuning into the sound of rustling leaves until he makes out Rosita's voice, distinctively bitching about whatever she's bitching about at the moment. There's always something, and Daryl can't really blame her for it.

“I told her,” Rick says from afar.

“Jesus.” Daryl hurries after him, breaking a twig under his boot on purpose. A few seconds later, he just _so_ avoids making intimate contact with Jesus' leg shooting out from behind a goddamn tree. “The fuck, man, stop with this ninja crap.”

Rosita frowns. “You're on your way to Hilltop? It's going to be dark soon.”

“Sorry,” Jesus says, grinning. “Are you hunting?”

“I told her.”

They turn to Rick and watch him lean against a tree, nodding.

“What's with him?” Rosita asks, wrinkling her nose like she can smell the bullshit from the distance.

“Nothin'.”

They turn to look at him instead, and Daryl averts his eyes to study his fingers. They could use some washing if he's honest. Showers only do so much when you spend the day in the woods, and he hasn't even gutted anything yet. Keeping clean should be considered a full-time job nowadays. Not that he knows, he never had one, but this here - this is like herding goddamn cats.

“Daryl.”

Daryl clears his throat. “We're takin' a walk,” he says, speaking over Rick informing them that he told her.

“Yeah, you didn't,” Rosita says, eyebrows climbing up her forehead. “Why does he keep saying that?”

Daryl shrugs and snatches at Jesus' arm when he makes to walk over to Rick. “Dunno, don't think that's a good idea.”

“What _is_ the idea, then?”

“Taking him out so he can get some fresh air?” Jesus blinks out of that big eyes of his, and Daryl raises his hand to bite at his thumb. “To get some distance?”

“Guess.”

“When will you come back?” Rosita cocks her head, and when Daryl looks at her, he finds that sometime in the last minute, her demeanor changed; she almost looks understanding. God, he's been gone for too long, he's out of touch with all of them. He can't read their faces like he used to.

“Dunno.” He waits for a few awkward moments before he starts walking again. Rick follows in an instant, looking like he's deep in thought, and even though his smile gives Daryl major creeps, he tries to ignore it. And the footsteps of both Jesus and Rosita following them.

Soon after, Rick pushes past him like he knows the way, and they follow him until it's clear he's wandering just as aimlessly as they are.

“It's going to be dark soon,” Rosita says again, stating the fucking obvious.

Jesus hums. His god-awful coat is gathered up like he's wearing a gown so he doesn't leave a trail as big as a highway, and Daryl wishes they'd just go home and leave him to it. It'll be fine. They've done worse things than sleeping rough for one night.

“'s fine if you wanna go. I can take it from here.” Since that was the plan.

“Like we'd leave you with Rick's crazy-stare. Right.” Rosita grins. “What do you think you're going to do if you happen to come across Saviors? Or Negan him-fucking-self? You think Rick here is going to fight with you?”

His eyes catch on a small hut through the trees, and Daryl comes to a stop, clenching his fist. “Didn't ask you to come,” he says quietly, and then he nods towards the cabin. “We set up there for the night. It'll be fine.”

“Because you say so?”

Daryl turns to her and manages to look at her face for all of three seconds. “I know how to handle Rick.”

That gets her to shut up at least, but every attempt to catch Rick's attention fails until Daryl walks over and bodily guides him towards the cabin like herding an unresponsive doll. It's _fine_.

*

After a short fight with Jesus regarding watch-duties, Daryl plops down on the dirty wooden floor and tries to keep Rick in his line of sight despite him pacing. Rosita takes watch without discussion, informing him in unfriendly words how the circles under his eyes make him look like her late abuelo, and when Jesus actually grins, they grapple for a moment.

Then he's too exhausted and gives up.

Apparently, he's out like a light. By morning, Rick seems to have sunken into himself where he stood, now curled up in the middle of the room. He looks like a child.

Daryl's stomach turns and he stays lying on his side, swallowing against all the pain he's trying to keep down. He's had very good training, one of the best, but there's still a limit somewhere and one of these days, something else will happen and it will be the last straw and he'll explode with it all, raw and disgusting.

It's not a 'maybe' anymore, it's a certainty. Even in this god-awful world it could be just a possibility, but with Negan running wild - no. It will happen. The only hope is that maybe no one will be around to see it happen.

Something crunches.

Daryl glances up and out of the broken window - only the wooden frame is left of it - at Jesus chewing on a carrot. He holds it up and wiggles it, lifting his eyebrows in question. With quiet movements, Daryl gets up and dusts off the worst of the—whatever clings to him, closing the door behind him with and blinking against the sun. “Mornin'.”

Rosita nods, half-hidden behind an apple before she takes a noisy bite.

“So, what's the plan?” Jesus holds out both an apple and a cigarette, and Daryl feels like hugging him. He doesn't, but he thinks about it.

“There ain't no plan.” He shrugs and carefully puts the smoke in the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Then let me try this the other way around: what are you going to do now?”

Eying the apple in his hand, Daryl weighs his options and comes up empty for reasons why he won't let them help. Ain't no fucking reason for it. He should be glad about all the help he can get and instead he feels jittery and nervous just because they're here with them. Ain't right, somehow. “Reckon I'm gonna go hunt us somethin'.”

“Your plan is to hunt.”

Jesus rolls his eyes at Rosita and steps forward to block her from view. “That's a good start,” he says sort of encouragingly like Daryl's a schoolboy all over again. Back when the teachers thought it would pay off to grant him encouraging nods and smiles, that is. “Will you leave Rick at the cabin, during? Or should he come with you?”

Daryl blinks, uncomprehending, and starts on his apple to pretend this, also, is fine.

“There's not much going on in these parts of the woods, I'll give you that. Almost half-way between Hilltop and Alexandria from what I can tell, so it's unlikely we'll meet any Saviors out here.” Jesus pauses, pulling a face. “Well, except when we're suddenly meeting all of them, but I guess then it doesn't matter where we're at anymore anyway.”

“There a point to this?”

Jesus stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking chipper. “I'd say you need at least one guard, two would be better now that we are - if you remember - at war. Rick's out of it and you can't rely on him to either protect himself or you in case you get into trouble, and you can't leave him here on his own. He'll probably wander off and you shouldn't try to hunt with him without backup in the area, either.”

Daryl nods and flings the apple seed into a bush. “You're sayin' you think I can't do it.”

“No. I'm saying you shouldn't try to. I'm saying you shouldn't have to try, we'll just stay here for a while.”

Scoffing, Daryl turns and catches Rick's unruly hair; the man stares at them through the broken window. “I'm gonna head out.” He flees, only just remembering to grab his crossbow.

A couple of dead squirrels and hours later, he gets back and tries to stop his heart from speeding up when he sees Rosita and Jesus still being there, looking like they're on vacation. At least until Jesus spots him and starts jogging his way as if he's unable to carry dead fucking squirrels on his own.

“What.”

Jesus licks his lips. “Next time, we do it differently,” he says and stops, frowning. “Listen, we can't stay longer than until tomorrow, at least not me, or the others will think something happened. Well, they probably already think something happened. Anyway, I'll have to leave by morning but you can't - and I'm saying this as a friend, all right - you can't leave him in there.”

“Was _your_ idea I shouldn't take him.”

“Alone. You shouldn't leave him in there alone,” Jesus says, nodding for emphasis like he's making any sense.

“He wasn't. I left him with you.”

“Oh, stop being stupid. Just don't leave, all right? He's not good-”

“What's that mean?”

The answer takes too long, and Daryl pushes past him, marching up to the cabin and bursting through the door.

There's no chaos, no fire or dead people hanging from the ceiling, no blood or splintered wood. There's only Rick sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and his arms crossed over his knees. Harmless.

Daryl stomps back out and drops the squirrels in Rosita's lap before he points at Jesus.

“Hey now.” Jesus takes a step back, hands raised like he thinks Daryl's gonna fucking punch him and that almost makes it happen. If he wants it he can _get_ it. “It may not look like much but you weren't here for the height of it!”

“Then get on with tellin' me.”

Jesus steps closer, lowering his voice until he's almost whispering. Behind him, Rosita rolls her eyes and just like that, Daryl relaxes a bit. “Listen, he stood at the same spot for at least an hour, okay? And then he moved, but he moved to the window and stood _there_ for an hour and after that, he opened the door and - guess what - he stood there staring into the woods, and a minute before you came back, he closed the door and went to sit down.”

“He's got good ears,” Daryl says roughly.

“I'm telling you-”

“I heard you, all right. Jesus.”

“Jesus is going to leave for Alexandria to try to get someone else to come back here. I'll stay until then.” Rosita nods, looking at her fingernails. “Could use the time off,” she adds quietly, sounding a bit like she didn't want to say it at all.

Daryl sighs long and hard, and then he plops down to gut the squirrels. He wants to say thank you, he really does, but first, he feels compelled to get up and open the door, and with Rick in his line of sight, if only out of the corners of his eyes, it's just that much easier. “Thanks, I guess,” he says.

Rosita groans. “I'll go pile up some wood.” She checks her gun and is off, and Jesus takes her place, smiling down at him like he expects any small talk to happen.

There ain't no small talk, but the rest of the day turns out to be not too bad after all, despite having to glare Rick into submission when he tries to consume his food by looking at it. At night, he takes watch and something in his chest he had no idea about pulling taut finally relaxes. It's all right.

 


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Jesus leaves while Rosita gripes about accidentally stepping on her last apple, then she pins him with a hard stare.

“Do you plan to leave anytime soon?”

Daryl frowns. “I told you.”

“Not to go back, you idiot. Do you plan to go hunting in the next hour or two? I'm hungry and squirrel only does so much.”

Daryl stares, blank.

“I'm gonna go to Hilltop, get us—tomatoes or something. You know, vitamins? I will be back in a few hours?” She glares. “You think you can manage to stay here until I get back?”

“I'll try my best.” Daryl smiles with all of his teeth, and she leaves with a huff.

She comes back a minute later, frowning.

“I mean it. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. Jesus won't let me hear the end of it.” She huffs again, turning to where she came from. “The day before, Rick really lost it, okay? I need you to understand that so you don't go off chasing bunnies or whatever you're doing when you're skulking around in the woods all day.” She smiles and it reaches her eyes, and then she's gone.

Did Rick and Rosita ever exchange more than a few words?

Did the new people ever see Rick and _him_ share more than a few grunts?

That thought makes Daryl uneasy enough to glance through the excuse of a window, flinching when Rick stares back at him from a few inches away. “Jesus, man.”

They stare at each other until Rick's gaze wavers and goes past him. Then he gets moving, opens the door, and proceeds to stare at the trees.

For a while, Daryl tries to initiate some casual talk, but Rick doesn't react and if he's honest, he wouldn't know what to say to the man anyway. For the lack of anything else, he rounds the building, desperate to find something to occupy himself with. There are trees. A few bushes. Dead leaves, bird shit, a branch with moss on it. He drags his heels, walking back to the front. To no one's surprise, Rick is still there, though he migrated to sit on a chair, and he's sharpening a twig.

Daryl watches with a small knot he refuses to call anxiety in his stomach, but there ain't no war cry, no sudden lurch or drastic movements. He's simply peeling bark off a twig. If that helps - fine. Even crazy, Rick finds himself something to do. It's a good sign, Daryl thinks, frowning, mostly at himself. He ain't made for this, sitting around doing nothing. He's got to have a task, no matter how trivial, and around them ain't nothing but trees and—the cabin.

With resolve, he marches inside to try to make this shithole of a derelict hut more homey.

An impossible task, but after a while, with most of the clutter and trash thrown out, the room looks bigger and somewhat clean, and he figures with a blanket or two, it wouldn't be too unreasonable to say here for a few more nights. Or however long it's gonna take to bring Rick back from wherever his mind has wandered off to.

If they had blankets.

He blinks through the dust in his eyes, quickly glancing outside to check on Rick—who fiddles with his crossbow. “What you're doin'?” he rushes out, speeding around the open door to get back out on the porch.

Rick looks up at the nearest tree like it was the source of the commotion, smiling. “I told her,” he says and goes back to tinker with the crossbow.

His crossbow. His _new_ crossbow, not the actual one still being held hostage by dead-man-walking Dwight.

With an uneasy feeling, Daryl settles in to watch what Rick is up to, feeling creepy and then feeling a lot better when Rick starts to randomly smile at the tree again. Good thing he's watching him—making arrows.

“Rick,” Daryl says and clears his throat.

Rick says nothing, the fucker, but he holds the self-made arrow next one of his own, comparing, sliding his fingers over it to catch the bumps and nicks, testing the flexibility. It looks professional, and it irks Daryl for reasons he can't put his finger on, so he gnaws on it instead.

“You hungry?” he asks eventually, mostly to break the awkward silence that's probably only in his head, stupid fuzzy thoughts spinning free in his mind without any meaning, reason, or direction to go. This is bullshit, all of it. The hell they're doing here in the middle of fuck-all, how's Rick supposed to get better sharpening arrows for a crossbow that isn't even his. That ain't even _his_. It's nobody's fucking crossbow, and still it gets all the attention while he's sitting here getting nothing.

Rosita comes back. He glances up, trying to not look too grateful and failing, if her smirk is anything to go by.

“Missed me?” She sort of cackles, dropping a knapsack in his lap. “That should do it for now, and-” She shrugs off her backpack and gives it a pat. “Blankets!”

“You read my mind or somethin'”?

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

“I told her.”

“Anyway- Oh.” Rosita pauses in the door, turning to lift her eyebrows at him. “You did that? Nice.”

Daryl shrugs.

Rosita rolls her eyes. “I'm gonna take a nap since I have to take watch again, right? Be good and make dinner, I brought plenty of food that isn't squirrel.” The door falls shut, a futile attempt at giving her privacy, and something like gratefulness surges through him, though he doesn't know what for.

Ain't important, there's something to do now.

Rick keeps working on the arrows until the small fire burns hot, a pot with cooking potatoes over it. Content, Daryl leans back in his chair and watches the light flicker over Rick's steady hands. They move quick and sure like they always did, like his mind isn't in shambles and he talks instead of repeating the same sentence over and over. Whatever that sentence even means. He should probably ask.

Grunting vaguely, Rick sets down the crossbow with careful hands, then he glances over, nods, and gets up. Leaving Daryl to sit frozen as if his mind already forgot about the living and breathing person inside the shell that's his friend. Not too far away, Rick stops, taking a piss against the tree he keeps smiling at.

Daryl averts his eyes, skin tight all of a sudden, fingers flexing for something to fiddle with. He plugs out the smoke Jesus gave him, holding it between his fingers and inhaling the scent. The thought of smoking hasn't crossed his mind in weeks. Months. Stuck in there and before and—

He licks his lips and gently shoves it back into the pocket of his shirt, letting his hand linger to make sure it's safely tucked away. When he looks back up, Rick sits next to him, half in the shadows, and looks over with a face he can't read.

“You hungry now?” Daryl waits, dropping his hand to pick at the frayed seam of his jeans. “Rosita got us potatoes.”

When's the last time you had potatoes, Rick?

All the different ways he shoved potatoes in his mouth over the course of his life, and now he can't remember the taste of a single one of them. Makes one wonder if something like fries were ever real. Maybe it's just something the mind comes up with when there ain't nothing to do but wait. Waiting for—

Maybe it wasn't that long ago, maybe he just recently came up with the idea of fries. In the last weeks, not months or years. Maybe it was in the cell, maybe that too is one of the things that weren't ever real, maybe none of it is.

Rosita opens the door, muttering something around a yawn that has enough bite in it Daryl snaps out of his thoughts, embarrassed even though they cannot fucking know what he thought about.

Rick stares at him.

Daryl stares back, half-convinced this is normal, that this is something he would do and that Rick would do; Rosita filling up a bowl in the background, complaining about only having that one and that she'll eat first because it's ladies first. That's normal too, ain't it. It's a possible scenario, nothing he'd make up. Would he.

*

Time stretches.

For some unfathomable reason, Daryl finds himself unable to hunt while Rosita's almost-good mood blows over until everything she does is brooding in silence. Which is fine by him, at least there ain't no forced small talk. Or any talk, for that matter.

Rick sits on his chair and goes on sharpening arrows like the crazy son of a bitch he is. Daryl watches until he can't justify what he's doing anymore, not even in his head. Ain't right sitting on his ass all day when there's stuff he could do instead. Like hunting. Which ain't an option. But cleaning is, so that's what he does.

In the middle of it, he comes up with the glorious idea of creating a makeshift broom out of a twig and a few leaves, ignoring Rosita and ignoring Rick ignoring him, and when the floor is as clean as it's going to get, he spends too long on deciding where to place the blankets for their sleeping arrangements.

Obviously, Rosita's goes back to where he found it; in the corner, half behind something that used to be a cupboard. Probably.

Rick's blanket goes to where Rick sleeps, which is the in the middle of the room and that—won't do.

Weighing his options, Daryl shoves both of their blankets around until his mind catches up on what he's doing, and then he stomps outside with a huff, throwing a glare in Rick's direction for good measure. Not that Rick would know, busy as he is trying to make dozens of arrows.

At least half of them will snap before they're even fired but - it's the thought that counts. Or some shit like it. He guesses.

“I don't know if you want to hear this, but since you're not doing a good job at saying no, I guess I'm just gonna say it.” Rosita glances at Rick while the man focuses on the wood between his fingers. “I know how you feel.” She nods. Daryl leans against the questionable post of the porch, feeling both curious and like an intruder. It's gotta be about Abraham. He thinks he remembers someone making a remark about Rosita leaving with Sasha to—but that can't be right.

“I told her,” Rick says. He looks up, face solemn, and holds Rosita's eyes for a moment.

Something weird tingles in the back of his head. Maybe in his stomach, oddly enough. It's probably fucking hunger. No one can survive on potatoes and vitamins, surely. Much less if the potatoes, by any chance, ain't real in the first place.

“Thing is,” Rosita says, “I won't tell you to push through, you gotta find your own way. I did, but it took me a while. Some said it took too long or that I didn't react the way they thought was best like they had any idea what would help me to get over- What I'm trying to say: if you need this, I won't question it. But there's gotta be a sign from you, something that lets us know you're trying.”

Daryl flinches, pulling her attention before he knows what he's doing. “That ain't fair.”

“For all we know, he could be lost in his own mind for a good long while. Don't you think it's a good idea to at least try to find out if this is going to be temporary or something he plans to hold onto forever?”

He should go hunting. The food Rosita brought ain't gonna last forever and he's already tired of tomatoes and potatoes, generally all -oes he can think of, and he can't go hunting. Jesus Christ. “It's temporary,” he rasps. Jesus Christ. He can't leave, his feet won't move, what the hell, he's the one able to feed them, provide them with meat, make sure nobody's ever gonna go hungry.

Rick stares at him.

A twig snaps. It's deliberate and loud, and Daryl rushes out a breath, looking away from Rick's strange face when Jesus comes out of the bushes, loaded with backpacks as if they're gonna stay out here until the end of time.

“Hey, guys,” Jesus says, hands raised like they're wild animals instead of the people he fucking looked for.

There's no answer from anyone, and from one second to the next, it's too much, the tension is too weird and the air too heavy, and his shirt hasn't stopped clinging to his back ever since they got here. Daryl marches around the cabin like a man with a goal, and even out of sight, he rushes right up to the bushes, starting to pick berries like that was the plan. Maybe it was.

He's left in peace for all of two minutes - he's counting, all right - then someone comes closer, steps light, barely disturbing the leaves. Jesus. Literally.

“Everything okay?”

“What you're followin' me for?”

Jesus smiles. “To ask if everything is okay.”

One of the berries spills between his fingers, staining them purple-blue. They stick together. It's weird. “No,” he says and lifts his hand to take a closer look. Beside him, Jesus hums and doesn't leave.

“I didn't think so. Just - if there's anything I can do, let me know?”

Daryl frowns, looking up and finally giving in to the urge to shove his finger into his mouth. “I'm not the one bein' all crazy,” he mutters. “If you wanna help, go an' try to ask Rick about it.”

Jesus smiles again, weirdly carefree. “I brought some stuff over from Alexandria, if you want to take a look. Oh, and Carol might come by, she said I should give you a warning, just in case.”

His heart aches. “All right. You did.”

“I did.” Jesus reaches out like he wants to _touch_ him, but then he drops his hand again, looking sheepish. “Wanna take a look?”

“You sound like Merle's dealer,” Daryl says, sniffing and following Jesus back to the front of the hut, eyes drawn towards Rick without his input. He left his brain by the bushes, apparently, because he walks over and hands Rick the berries, and then he goes to lean against the post, watching Jesus emptying his bags and trying to socialize with Rosita—and actually being successful at it.

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but somehow it does.

Later, when he reminds himself he's been shot and tortured and almost starved to death, he finds the courage to look at Rick in his chair, and he finds him still working on various arrows like he's one of them crazy people working on sculptures all day long. There's a blue stain on his hand, and Daryl looks away again, planning on a huff that gets stuck in his throat.

*

“Did you?” They're on watch, Rosita and him. The fire burned down a while ago and her words won't leave his head. “Get over it.”

“Why?”

He looks at a tree to his left, pretending to listen to a noise. “Just askin', I guess.”

“For any particular reason?” She sounds weird, and Daryl keeps staring at the tree. “You asking for me or you asking for you?”

“Dunno what you mean by that,” he says roughly, taking a quick glance at her before he looks away again. Ain't nothing for him to get over, she fucking knows that. It's rude to ask.

Rosita sighs. “When was the last time you slept? Really slept, Daryl.”

“What's that got to do with anythin'?”

“You have no idea what you're doing here.” Rosita sighs again, way too long. “Well, I guess I'll pretend you asked for me instead of you-”

“I did.”

She glares, then she looks away, leaving her profile in the dim glow of the night. “At first, I wanted to die. Don't know if you heard that part, but it wasn't pretty. Angry wasn't nearly enough for what I felt, first at him, then at Sasha. After that, at myself.” She pauses. “I got Olivia killed.”

“Negan did that,” he says, too fast for someone who wasn't there to see it.

“No, I did that. He gave the command, but- If I hadn't missed, then what I did would've been a good thing. But I did miss, so it was a bad thing, and it was something that _wouldn't_ have happened if I hadn't made that choice.”

“But you got over it,” he says, heart pounding. She _said_ so.

He ain't gonna get over it. She doesn't know. But if he had to see what she had to see—but he wouldn't have to see something like that, because there ain't no one for him like there was for her. Like Abraham was for her. Not the breaking up part, not the together-before part, not the loving part.

Their situations can't compare, she's just as likely _worse_ off than him, Jesus Christ, what's he even comparing, this ain't a competition, Dixon, get a fucking grip—

“Go to sleep.”

Daryl whips his head around, terrified that he said any of it out loud, but when he sees her wiping at her cheeks, his own grow hot with embarrassment. “Sorry. Sorry.” He stands, twitching back when her hand closes around his wrist.

“I'm not saying my way is the right way, obviously, but I see your anger. I've seen it for weeks, every time I looked in the mirror.”

Daryl averts his eyes, tuning into the sound of Rick turning on his blanket. “Always been like that,” he says, voice rough with whatever, and takes his hand back to cradle it against his chest. “Ain't nothing new. Learned to live with it before, gonna do it again.”

When he closes the door, he takes a deep breath and then another, pressing his thumbs against his eyes until they sting with something else. Rick's motionless form is still easy enough to see, and he keeps his eyes on him, lying on his side and blinking slower and slower, heart heavy with the thought of Rick feeling the same way Rosita does. Did.

He deserves so much more, so much better than any of that. It ain't right.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. I sort of forgot that Rosita was shot in the S7 finale.  
> I just - forgot about that :D I only now remembered, I'm sorry. It's too late to change it now, but I just wanted to say that I didn't mean to ignore her injury on purpose.

He shoots upright when the sun is already shining and the faint sound of Judith giggling rips a hole in his heart.

It's Carol, outside. With Judith.

Daryl flops back with a sigh, shoulder blades digging into the hard floor, and glances at the blanket beside his own. It's close, almost brushing him. Maybe Rick threw it his way when he got up.

It's a miracle it didn't wake him. Strange.

Maybe he did it on purpose—no, Rick's too far gone to do anything on purpose.

Daryl nods to himself and gets to his feet, reaching for his shirt. He tries to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles and some of the tangles in his hair. Then he brushes over his face, detecting that the stubble ain't stubble but wild growth by now, and with his inability to even grow a decent beard, he probably looks like the actual redneck he is; dirty, greasy hair, wrinkled clothes. Someone who sleeps with his shoes on despite a guard sitting outside.

Carol laughs. It's quiet, only lasting for a moment, but it's enough for him to get a grip. He opens the door and squints against the sun, taking a moment to look at the picture in front of him while he swallows against the instinctual urge to flee. It's as old as he is himself, ain't nothing to be done about it.

“Morning.” Carol smiles, casually leaning against the wooden post, gun in one hand, rag in the other. She's cleaning Rick's gun, and Rosita sits watching her, looking in awe and also shaking her head.

“Mornin',” he grunts. “Should've woken me.”

“And disturb your beauty sleep? Don't think so.” Rosita rolls her eyes at him and looks away immediately, focusing on Judith on Rick's thighs like she's actually interested in children.

Daryl makes a beeline for the water, gulping down half a bottle while he watches Rick out of the corner of his eyes. Good thing he's already swallowing, because acid rises up in his throat the moment he sees that Rick ain't doing much to indicate he notices the toddler sitting on his lap, though he's holding her hips like he's doing it without conscious thought. Other than that, he sits motionless, staring into the distance like he's a soldier fresh home from war. Well, he is. They all are. _Carol_ is, most of them all, and she doesn't stare at trees.

She hid away in the Kingdom instead, fixing up traps not only for walkers but to warn her about people - friends coming her way. Thing is: she came back. She came back guns blazing, and there ain't no one to tell him Rick won't do the same. He will. Yeah, he will.

There's a commotion, and when Daryl finally takes his eyes off the man, Rosita passes him with a nod. She rights her cap and is off through the trees, and Daryl is left blinking, gaze drawn by Judith swinging her rattle rather boldly.

Carol smiles down at her, still wiping away at Rick's gun.

It's too nice, nice enough he ain't sure if this is right or if it's too good, despite Rick and his crazy-stare.

So nice his mind had to come up with it.

The thought makes him uneasy enough that he stops staring and takes one of the sandwiches Rosita brought back the day before, sitting with his back against the damp wood and wolfing it down to keep himself occupied with something other than staring at his best friend losing his mind and, even if he doesn't like to admit it, keeping Carol from frowning at his shape again. It was just once and it wasn't too bad, but there ain't no reason to give her something else to worry about. Or for her to know about Dwight and dog food and vomit and the bucket in the corner of his cell. Much easier to just eat a sandwich, don't matter if it tastes good or not.

Carol sits down next to him, gun in her lap. She's quiet, eyes on the rag, sometimes looking up to smile at Judith, and Daryl almost claws out of his skin with something. This is like waiting. Waiting for something he has no idea about even though it was his idea to come here in the first place. There's a war going on and here he sits, here they all fucking sit, faces turned towards the sun, a toddler in their midst, cleaning guns and eating sandwiches and watching trees.

Yeah, probably not real.

Something connects with his arm; a light touch, not hesitating or hovering. Carol circles her fingers around his wrist and squeezes, then she picks up Rick's gun again and resumes cleaning.

For a bit, he feels like crying, and then he feels like crying because he feels like crying. What the hell even, she touched him hundreds of times, thousands, and at least a good half of them touches were friendly, and he never once felt the fucking urge to cry.

If he's having a reaction like that—maybe it'll bring Rick out of his head, too. Maybe she should touch Rick that way.

Technically, he could try himself. Did he touch Rick in the last few days? He probably did. It took a while to get the man to eat, he sure as hell didn't do that without touching him. Leaving out the choke-hold, of course, or the way he herded Rick, before and after. Full-body contact, and Rick is still in fucking shock or whatever. Ain't no thing like a magic touch to make it all better, Jesus Christ.

Eventually, Carol takes her leave, bending down to pick up Judith from Rick's lap. With a mighty frown, Judith kicks, walking in the air until her small feet connect with Rick's middle.

His shoulder twinges in sympathy even before Rick hisses, setting off alarm bells in his head so fast he feels dizzy with it. When's the last time someone checked that wound, how on earth did he _forget_ about it?

Carol stops in front of him, suddenly at eye-level, and Daryl notices with amazement that he's standing upright instead of sitting down.

“Thanks,” he says roughly, “For comin' by,” he adds, reaching out to smooth Judith's hair back when she lets out a sniff.

“Take care of yourself.” Carol nods, smiling with her lips pulled into a firm line, and then she leaves. Just like that.

Dumbfounded, Daryl stands for a while, unsure how to process any of it. The fuck's he doing, honestly. He should check the wound, but there ain't no way he'll go over to Rick to get him to lose his shirt and pants without his help being needed. He can't do that.

“Rick,” he says without meaning to, curving his back down, but just a bit. “You took a look at the wound lately?” He hovers until he can't stand it anymore, then he straightens back up, gets his head out of his ass, and puts his hand on Rick's shoulder.

Rick cranes his neck to look up at him. “It's fine,” he rumbles. A moment later, he turns back to the trees, going motionless again.

Dropping his hand, Daryl rushes out a breath and pulls a face when it comes out with a stutter, and then he turns, coming up completely empty as of what do to next instead of obsessing over Rick reacting to him, waking up like goddamn Sleeping Beauty just because of one touch to his shoulder.

But one of these days, he'll have to check the wound. Would be his kind of luck to wait for Rick to get his head back in order only for him to die from a blood infection or some shit.

*

After he spends the night on watch - not because Rick's blanket moved on its own, further away, because Rick threw it to the side when he got up instead of purposefully placing it closer to him, obviously - he's running on fumes. He's tired and hungry, his mood is shitty and getting even shittier when footsteps start to echo through the woods, too fast to be a walker or—two. Yeah, two. Where are these dead assholes anyway? For all the damn haunting they've been doing, now they're keeping their good distance, for whatever damn reason.

“Hi!” Jesus smiles or maybe grins, and Daryl glares at him.

“Hey.” Maggie nods, and Daryl stops glaring and looks at the ground instead.

“Shouldn't have come all this way out here,” he says, fiddling with a hangnail. “'s not safe.”

“Got many walkers here?” Maggie asks, and Daryl doesn't need to look up to know she's checking the area for the usual pile of dead bodies. Well. There ain't one.

“Nah.”

Maggie hums, suddenly close enough it would be plain rude to keep avoiding her face, so he looks up, gnawing on the inside of his mouth.

“So,” she says, squatting next to his chair and more or less ignoring Rick. Not that he's doing anything noteworthy, he just stares at the trees like he does now. Though he has his gun out, resting it on his thigh in a way familiar enough that Daryl isn't disturbed by him being armed again.

“Daryl, you with me?”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now - tell me the plan.”

Jesus makes a beeline for the hut.

Daryl turns in his seat, keeping track of him as if the cabin is his actual house and home now. It fucking ain't. It's the crazy-hut he keeps Rick in, nothing more. But Maggie is waiting. “Jesus,” he says, loud enough to surprise himself, and then he has to come up with a reason for it, closing his eyes against his own stupidity. “I wanted to ask you somethin'.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jesus wanders back over, head cocked. It's clear as glass Jesus won't refuse whatever he's going to throw his way, so Daryl picks the first thing that comes to his mind, if only to not disappoint Maggie—because that ain't something he can do. Ever again.

“Got a plan, but we need more people for it. Rosita's in Alexandria, reckon she'll be back by nightfall,” he says slowly, thoughts running in circles until he comes up with something that actually makes sense. “Guess I should've asked Maggie first but since she's here now-”

“Spit it out,” Jesus says with a grin.

“We're gonna lay some traps for them. Blow some shit up so both Alexandria and Hilltop are harder to reach. Stall them, you know? We'd need a messenger though, to connect the groups. Oversee it, so to speak.”

There's a beat of silence.

“Actually, that's a great idea.” Maggie nods, reaching out to pat his knee. “I think - Jesus, we don't have any dynamite left, do we? Some firework?”

Jesus shakes his head. “Don't think so. If we had, Gregory hid it in a safe place and- yeah. No, we don't have any.”

“We've got some leftover dynamite, so I've heard. Dunno where, though.” Daryl licks his lips, glancing over at Rick sitting in his chair, at the way he's not even trying to _appear_ like he's partaking in their conversation. Now that he's looking closely enough, he's quite sure Rick stopped blinking altogether.

“From the highway?”

“Yeah.” Where Rick and Michonne—that one. Stuff of legend, apparently. Not that he'd know. Since they left him behind in the Kingdom.

'They' meaning Rick.

With a quick glance to the side, Maggie straightens and looks at Jesus. They have a wordless conversation Daryl doesn't want to know or care about until Jesus taps his shoulder and points with his head, and Daryl finds himself standing up, just like that. Must be some kind of natural calm Jesus radiates or he sure as hell wouldn't just _obey_ him.

“Stop pulling a face, man.” Jesus shakes his head and steps around the corner. He leans against the wall, crossing his ankles like he's ready to enjoy the goddamn sun. Daryl glares at his profile, and then he has to twist out of reach when Jesus tries to pull him around the corner, too. He goes anyway, of course, there just ain't no reason for touching, is all. “Just give them a minute, okay? It'll be fine.”

“Know it will.” Daryl huffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets and biting his lip when he can't make them fit. Stupid hands and stupid tiny pockets. He shuffles through the leaves so he can't hear anything Maggie and Rick might say on the porch.

“What do you think will happen?” Jesus sounds curious, and when Daryl looks up, he finds his eyebrows lifted in something that looks like amazement. “Honest question,” Jesus adds.

“Nothin'.”

“Think he'll talk to Maggie?”

“What do you _want_?”

Jesus shrugs. “I'm just bored. Sorry for needling you, but it's hard not to. You make it very easy.”

Without his input, Daryl growls, and Jesus doesn't flinch back in terror, he snorts instead.

“All right, all right, I got it. No jokes.” Jesus sighs, looking about like he's taking in the scenery. “Nice spot you picked, though. We came across a single walker on the way here. One, can you imagine? Bet there's a swamp nearby. Walker-soup.” He grins.

“You ever shut up?” Daryl takes a quick look around the corner.

Maggie kneels in front Rick's chair and talks in a hushed voice. It's too quiet to make out specific words, but her tone is clear enough; unhurried, light and businesslike like she's informing him about their plans instead of trying to talk some sense into him. Rick wouldn't want that anyway, would he? That she tried to sweet-talk him into coming back?

Yeah, he would. Getting Rick back is and should be the priority, no matter what, but her attempts, whatever they are, stay futile. Rick isn't saying a word, and Daryl pretends he's feeling sorry about it instead of—something else.

“I still don't think he'll talk to Maggie if he hasn't talked to you yet,” Jesus says. “I have no idea why you're even- no, never mind, I don't want to know.”

“Me neither.” It's the goddamn truth, too.

“But laying traps is a good idea, even if you only came up with it just now.”

“The fuck you even want?” It's genuinely puzzling him, thinking about why Jesus keeps riling him up - on purpose - with that big eyes and weird smile of his—oh Jesus. He's gotta be flirting or some shit, god help him.

Daryl takes a step back, weary and then, traitorous as they are, his lips curl up when Jesus' smile falls off and makes room for a harder stare, a meaner one, something that doesn't yell boy next door any longer. They stare at each other, Daryl ready to let his fists fly, and Jesus, from the look of it, ready to bust his nuts with a well-aimed kick. Then Jesus rolls his eyes and leans back against the shabby wood.

“Didn't think you'd meet all the cliches, but I guess one can't do much against upbringing.”

Something flashes through his mind and it's red, running hot like lava. “You got no idea what you're talkin' about,” he hisses, pushing forward without thinking. “Better keep your mouth shut if that's all that comes out of it.”

Jesus jerks back, staring for a moment. “I don't know what just happened, but I think that you're talking about something way different than I am.” He lifts his eyebrow, and Daryl clenches his fists. “I'm gay,” Jesus says slowly.

Of course he fucking is. “What you're tellin' me for?”

“Boys.” Maggie sighs. “I'm gonna get going-”

“Wait a sec. Daryl, you're getting it all wrong and I just want to make sure you-”

“I don't care, man.” No. _No_. He cares, all right. Aids and all. He doesn't care to be _informed_ about it. Goddammit.

“I'm not hitting on you,” Jesus says, loud. “I'm not stupid. Sorry for mentioning the redneck-cliche, but for a moment there you looked like I'd have to put you on your back—in a fight. In a fighting way.”

“Really?” Maggie wrinkles her nose, grinning.

Daryl licks his lips, and then he rounds the corner and marches back to Rick, sitting his ass down on the second chair. In the background, he hears Jesus and Maggie having a hushed conversation, and his ears burn and his lungs burn and he doesn't look up until Maggie steps into his line of sight, saying goodbye. He feels the urge to hug her, but they never did except that one time and now he's sitting and that won't work anyway. So he nods at her and nods at Jesus when he confirms their plans, and then they're off and Daryl listens until the sound of Maggie griping about not needing a bodyguard gets too quiet to hear.

He sags, pressing his palms against his eyes until the chair scrapes over the floorboards and Rick stands with a hiss. His footsteps get quieter when he walks towards his favorite tree, and Daryl lowers his hands, staring at Rick's back, at the same shirt he's been wearing since they came here. It's going to start walking around on its own pretty damn soon, and he still hasn't seen the wound. There's got to be a bandage on it, and it must be rank and Rick will die—Rick is a grown man, pissing at a tree. And _he's_ a grown man watching another man pissing at a tree instead of coming up with a phrase to let him see the wound.

Useless.

The shame of it throbs in his cheeks.

He didn't even ask how Hilltop's faring. The thought didn't cross his mind, and he only tried to come up with a reason to help in the war they started because he was pressured into it. Willingly, he wouldn't have said a thing, and now he can't even ask his friend— “Rick,” he calls, standing.

They meet halfway.

“Lemme see the wound.”

Rick sits on the chair and opens his shirt and opens his belt and exposes the bandage.

His hands shake. Daryl kneels and pokes at the edges, a sharp smell in his nose and worry numbing his thoughts. “It's gotta come off.”

The process ain't pleasant. The bandage is rank and the wound is red and puffy, and they don't _have_ bandages here. He jogs inside and gets a shirt out of the bag Rick packed, cutting it without hesitation. It must hurt, it must hurt something awful, but Rick doesn't even twitch while he cleans the wound with half a bottle of water and careful fingers. To secure the new cover, he cuts the arms of the shirt, fastening the fabric all the way around Rick's torso, set on sending Rosita back for actual bandages as soon as she's back.

When he's done and the makeshift bandage sits tight, his hands stop shaking. Daryl licks his lips and leans back, waiting for Rick cover himself up.

“Thank you,” Rick says, voice quiet and eyes drawn by the tree. His tree. He ain't moving, and Daryl's heart clenches, and then he reaches out and starts to button Rick back up. It's freaking awkward, especially fastening the belt, but a few minutes later, Rick's clothes are back in order and there's something on his face that could be a smile.

He's in there. Not lost. He's there.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll upload two chapters today because I missed the one on Friday. Sorry for that.

Rosita comes back with Tara in tow.

It's busier here than living at Alexandria ever was, and Daryl's eye twitches without his input. Then again when he takes Rosita in, the light spring in her step and the way her hair curls around her forehead, damp and—clean.

“Hi,” Tara says, smiling bright and without teeth.

Daryl grunts.

“What have you been up to?” Rosita drops her backpack and takes out several water bottles, neatly lining them up.

If it weren't for all the people coming by at every hour of the day, they probably would've starved to death by now. Or died of thirst, both Rick and him. It's a shame. “Maggie came by,” he says.

“Oh?”

“We're gonna lay traps, blow up some of them roads.”

“Cool.” Tara sits down by the wall and draws up her knees. “Any ideas where yet?”

Daryl shrugs, picking at his fingernails. They're dirty, very much so.

“Sounds like a plan,” Rosita says slowly. “I've got a map - we've got a few hours of daylight left.” She looks at Tara, raising her eyebrows and grinning at her drawn-out sigh.

“We just got here,” Tara points out, eyelids drooping and shoulders hanging while she still manages to look friendly enough. However that is possible.

Rosita shrugs. “It's not like there's much to do around here. The cabin will still be there when we get back.” She pauses, glancing at him. “Most likely, Daryl and Rick will sit on those same chairs too. They don't really move, you know? Not much to miss.”

It's not a lie, exactly. He still huffs.

Tara snorts and struggles to her feet with a dramatic sigh. “We could use you, though. Just in case.”

That ain't meant for Rosita, is it. Shit. Shit, shit.

“We're not getting lost,” Rosita says, rolling her eyes.

Tara turns to him, looking expectant and friendly like she always does, and Daryl licks his lips and lets his hair fall in front of his eyes so he doesn't have to see her expression turning sour.

“Nah, 's fine. Go on without me.”

There's a beat of silence, and despite staring at his fingers, he's pretty sure they're looking at him. Rick too, possibly. As odd as that would be.

“You're not coming?”

“He's not coming,” Rosita says. “It's for the best anyway.”

“How's that for the best?”

Something in his neck pulls tight, ready snap any moment.

“Just forget it,” Rosita says, sighing. “We can do it on our own. We're gonna mark a few spots and be back before it's dark. I know these woods, there are basically no walkers and we haven't seen a single Savior either.”

Daryl nods like any of her reasoning even crossed his mind, and then he has to look up when Rosita's boots stop next to his chair. She leans down to him, face pulled into something that looks taxing, clears her throat, and puts the cap back on her head.

“You look better,” she says. They glare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds, then she nods and turns back to Tara.

He looks better?

“Coming?”

Without looking back, Rosita aims for the trees and leaves Tara to blink between her retreating back and him sitting without moving. Imitating Rick, more or less.

“Later, I guess,” Tara says, lifting her hand for a wave and looking so goddamn curious, he has no idea how to get out of it. When she finally gets going, he watches until they disappear from view, then he allows his shoulders to uncurl. And his stomach to unclench.

 _He_ looks better?

His neck prickles. It's Rick's crazy-stare, he can smell it, raising both goosebumps and his hackles at the same time. He steels his nerves, but when he sees Rick's mean stare - not the crazy one - he jerks back anyway. “What?”

Rick shakes his head. “Nothin'.”

His face is on fire, alarmingly, and Rick shouldn't dare to judge him. No fucking way. “They're just fixin' up the map, mark a few spots for us.” He can't read Rick's face, he only knows it ain't friendly and he doesn't want it directed at him. Daryl sits straight. “For the traps. It's a good idea.”

“It is. That was the plan,” Rick says.

No, Rick. Goddammit.

“That was the plan,” Rick says again. His fists are balled and his jaw is clenched, and he stomps off and around the building.

A few seconds later, Daryl hears him hammering away at the piece of wood he tried to fix to the back wall, patching up a hole where wind whistles through.

No way he lets himself be judged by this—crazy man. How did he even get the goddamn hammer, Jesus Christ.

He can't remember the last time someone said something to him that made sense.

*

Maybe he regained some color or something.

Or fat.

Though he didn't lose that much. But it must be something, because he sure as hell ain't feeling different and still someone saw a change—maybe Rosita is just crazy. Maybe he's surrounded by crazy people, and that is all.

The thought shouldn't be this unsettling.

All right, he looks better. Then what? Means he either looked like shit before, or that sitting around doing nothing got him some tan. Ain't nothing of importance, but that small sentence won't leave him alone.

It gets worse when he squats down to light the fire, sorting through twigs and dried leaves and taking his time about it. No reason to hurry about nothing anymore, not out here. Not when the only job he has - self-appointed, at that - is keeping the rest of Rick's sanity intact. Meaning: sitting next to him on a chair and looking at trees.

Smoke begins to curl upwards, and Rick's heavy footsteps come closer until they stop beside him.

Daryl sits back—Rick punches his jaw.

“The hell, man!” Daryl stumbles back against the post, staring at Rick's face.

“They wanted you to track for them, you tell me you didn't understand that? They could've used your help.”

The throb in his jaw mixes with a throb of embarrassment, hot in his cheeks.

“They could've used your help,” Rick says again, voice rough. “Why didn't you go?”

Daryl turns away, pulling up his shoulders in case of another attack. “You know why,” he says, and ain't it cute that his voice almost breaks, confessing something he has no business to even think about.

“I don't. I don't know why, Daryl.” Rick heaves a breath that rushes out with a quiet noise underneath, setting Daryl's nerves on fire until Rick actually sobs, harsh and angry. “I don't know why you won't go. Leave.”

“Rick.” Embarrassment forgotten, Daryl takes a step forward, suddenly cold instead of hot. “C'mon, man-”

Rick jerks, staring past him. “Why you won't leave and—die.”

“Rick,” Daryl says urgently, reaching for his shoulder and curling his fingers when Rick twists out of reach. The man turns away with jerky movements, sinking down on the chair and getting right up again. For the lack of anything else, Daryl walks after him, throbbing from head to toe with things he wouldn't have been able to process before the world went to shit.

This, right here - there ain't no way he's gonna make sense of it until he bites the dust for good, shit's too much to handle, even after everything, but at least Rick doesn't go far.

He picks up a few twigs and looks them over before he turns back to his chair. With sure and steady hands, he lines them up, pulls out his knife - _the_ knife - and starts to cut the ends, peeling off the bark and sharpening the tip. His voice is quiet, he's talking to the wood rather than looking at him. “I didn't mean it like that,” he says as if he thinks he knows something that ain't even true.

If it weren't for the throb in his jaw, the welcome pain of reality snapping back into focus, he'd be convinced his mind came up with whatever happened just now, but he sure as hell didn't think Rick actually wants him to go. Or to die, whatever.

Daryl stays silent, fingering the warm spot on his jaw, feeling the pulse underneath. Quietly hoping it'll form a bruise so come tomorrow, he'll have something to remind him it was real.

*

Rosita and Tara come back when it's dark and Daryl has been staring into the fire for long enough he feels like he's cooking from the inside. Nothing makes sense anymore. They talk about maps, points of attacks, and strategies, and Rick doesn't seem to notice them at all, he's so damn focused on making arrows.

Which he has yet to give to him.

Maybe he's making them for himself. Maybe Rick plans to learn to shoot the crossbow, this time for real. Not like back in the prison when he was afraid of guns. Maybe, though not as likely, he plans to take the crossbow from him—yeah, no.

“We have to lead them away, so that's our best option,” Rosita says, leaning closer.

Even after half a day in the woods, the smell of shampoo and civilization stills floats about her, the smell of _clean_ , and Daryl abruptly itches for a shower. Or for a bit more water than the bottles they have. A stream. A pond with a walker in it would do it at this point. He hasn't thought this through - not that filth and grime ever bothered him - but usually, if he's caked in mud and blood, it's because he's actively doing shit. Not sitting around.

Fortifying their cabin doesn't count as being productive, at least not in his book.

“There's a hut, a bit like this one. We go a mile east and hole up there for the night. Start back in the morning? Better that than losing our way in the woods with the explosions nearby.” Tara shrugs, leaning back against the wall and straightening out her legs in front of her. She too lost someone she loved, and she isn't sharpening twigs or talking to trees or asking her best friend why they don't go and die.

Everyone around here lost their loved ones. Except him. Not having one does come with an advantage, he always knew.

“Can you blink twice if you understand what I'm saying? A vague grunt? A lift of your shoulder?”

“I heard you,” Daryl says and clears his throat. “Plan sounds good.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Tara rolls her eyes, but she grins. “Wasn't so hard, was it?”

Rosita bumps her shoulder against him, frowning. “Did you get some sleep while we were out?”

Daryl shrugs, looking down when Rosita sighs.

“Guess it's watch for both of us then,” she says, and Daryl finds he can't look up even though he's positive she's talking to Tara. Who came to do his job for him. Because he forgot to sleep, and he hasn't slept the night before either, so he ain't gonna make it through another night, at least not without some kind of danger keeping up the adrenaline. Go figure.

They start chattering, something about Gabriel he has no interest in, but it sounds safe enough and it feels safe enough, so he gets up, nods at them both, and steps inside the hut. Before he can close the door, Rosita squeezes through, lowering both her voice and her eyebrows.

“He said anything to you?”

Daryl averts his eyes. “Why?”

“Cause I haven't heard him say 'I told her' in a while, and that's gotta be a good sign, right?”

Right. He forgot, busy as he is with—other stuff. “Guess.”

Rosita nods, all business and impatience. “Did you ask him how long he thinks it's going to be?”

“Nah.” That, he didn't forget. He just doesn't want to.

There's movement behind her; Rick making his slow way to the door.

Something in his belly curls, warm and uncomfortable.

“Don't matter now, we've got stuff to do. I'll- This time, I'll come. Bring him with me, I guess.” He looks away when Rosita keeps looking at him in a way he can't interpret and doesn't care for. He said it, so that's how it's going to be. Damn woman needs to learn to trust his word. And Rick's ability to sneak through doors without making a sound, looking all vacant and crazy but more than goddamn likely listening to every word they're saying.

But he has yet to talk in front of the others.

That warm thing in his belly curls a bit more and digs in sharply for a moment. He glares at Rick's ear.

The door falls shut, and they stand in a weird silence until Tara starts up a quiet conversation outside. The sound of it drifting through the window is enough to get Daryl moving.

Something ain't right. Again, or still, and he's so damn tired, he drops down on his blanket and wiggles out of his boots while he's already lying down, eyes focused on the dark ceiling above. It flickers with the light of the fire, familiar and calming. Next to him, Rick rustles about while not saying a single word, and the warmth inside of him intensifies until it passes alarming and reaches panic-territory.

He can't fall asleep despite the fire dying down along with the conversation outside, Rick's breathing turning quiet and regular, and his own weariness so strong he feels numb all over with it. He keeps his eyes on him, on the still form of his friend, on the way he stopped curving into himself like he did those dreadful first days.

His thoughts feel fuzzy and slow just from knowing he's getting better. There's light at the end of the tunnel and all of that shit. It's there, he can see the faint outline of it, and strangely enough, it has a familiar form. Looks like Rick, he guesses, but maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

 


	6. Chapter 6

When he opens his eyes, Rick is still lying on his side, lazily blinking at something on his chest. Daryl glances down, suspecting a big ass spider and finding none, nothing except his shirt caked in so much dirt he should definitely change it soon. Before it becomes sentient.

Maybe Rick is put off—that's bullshit. Rick's own clothes could stand on their own by now, he sure as hell won't take offense at something like that. He guesses.

“Mornin',” Daryl says belatedly, pushing down the blanket to rub at his eyes and getting caught in a greasy strand of his hair instead. He grumbles, yanking his fingers loose until Rick lets out something that's either a rush of breath or an actual laugh, if short. His heart skips a beat. “Yeah, bet that's funny to you.”

“I'm sorry,” Rick says around a small grin, and Daryl can't take a second more of it, so he gets up and puts his boots back on just in time for Rosita to come marching in, hands on her hips.

“Oh good, I was about to wake you. Jesus is here, they did find some dynamite back at Hilltop, but it's not enough, so we're off to Alexandria. Should be back in an hour or two.” She nods, turning to look at them both. Then she huffs. “Next time I'm gonna tell it to the post outside, the response will be just as overwhelming.”

“Mornin',” Daryl says again. “Sounds good.”

“Because it _is_ good,” she says, pulling a face. “Later.”

The door closes behind her.

Daryl trudges after, opening it again and raising his hand to wave Tara and Jesus a good morning. Or goodbye, whatever. Behind him, Rick gets up and stretches with a groan, and Daryl rummages for some food, handing over an apple and some dried meat of questionable origin.

Set on taking a look at Rick's wound again, he stalls over his own breakfast until it's awkward, and then he watches Rick fiddle with another twig until his internal clock informs him that the others will be back soon, and if Rick is only able to talk when they're alone, onlookers won't do anything to make him show his wound more readily.

And his fingers keep twitching over to the bandage like it's itching. It's _gotta_ come off.

With resolve, Daryl stands and walks over. “Time for a checkup.”

Rick unbuttons at once, first his shirt and then his jeans, opening his belt and pushing up his undershirt like he waited for him to ask for it. It's weird, but Daryl decides to worry over the wound instead, or the fact that he forgot to ask Rosita to bring back actual bandages. Or something like antiseptic cream—though last he heard, there ain't much left of it. It's back to crushing leaves and mixing them with berries. They should keep a look out for some thyme and lavender, just in case.

When the bandage comes off, the wound looks just as bad as before, and Daryl flutters about for a moment, gnawing on his lip.

“Not good?”

Daryl looks up through his hair. “Not good. Not so bad that you should worry about it yet, but you gotta take more care.”

Naturally, there's no answer to that.

With another piece of the ruined shirt, Daryl starts to clean the wound, trying to be as gentle as possible even though Rick doesn't complain, but every now and then, his stomach twitches away like he's sucking in air without sucking in air, and the barely-there fat of his belly curls away from his fingers, making him slip. He clumsily brushes over the skin just above Rick's hip. It's very soft, softer than it looks, and Daryl gnaws on his lip again, sucking it between his teeth to overrule the weirdness of it all.

The silence feels heavy, and he hopes it's only in his mind.

When he sits back to cut up a new bandage, the urge to fill the silence rises to intolerable heights anyway. “'m not sayin' you should do it yourself, you know. Just sayin' you should drink some more. And eat more.” He puts down the knife, glancing up at Rick's face. “If you forget, you can tell me. I'll remind you.”

“You would, wouldn't you?” This time, the quick intake of breath is audible when Rick sucks in his stomach again, fleeing from his fingers as he tries to cover up the wound. “Sorry.”

Staying focused on the task at literal hand, Daryl nods. “Ain't a problem,” he says when he's done. “Ain't no reason to be ashamed about it or whatever. At least you're sleepin' a lot, is a good sign.”

Rick huffs. “It's really not.”

“Why?”

There's a noise, sounding like it's stuck in Rick's throat. “It's gotta be the worst sign. Sleeping a lot, I mean. I never did that.”

Daryl leans forward and wraps the securing piece of shirt around Rick's torso, his smell heavy in his nose. He makes a knot with thick fingers, feeling stupid. “Dunno what that means,” he says eventually, and it's half-true, too. He doesn't know for sure, but he sure as hell knows he doesn't _want_ to know either, whatever it is Rick's brain came up with to justify his behavior.

“After Lori... Did you ever saw me sleep? You didn't, because I didn't. I took naps and in between—well, you remember.” Rick rushes out a harsh breath, stomach fluttering under Daryl's fingers, reminding him to actually take them off again.

He sits back, gripping the seat of the chair for balance and waiting for Rick to say it all.

“You know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

Rick laughs, a small, horrible sound that cuts directly into his heart. “Means I'm grieving the wrong way. Not like I should. And I shouldn't grieve to begin with. I told her, Daryl. This ain't how it's supposed to be.”

Lost, Daryl barely manages to let his hand stay where it is when Rick's fingers close around it, squeezing tightly. Before he can return the gesture, Rick withdraws again, rubbing his hand over his face. “Tell me what I can do.”

With his eyes drifting over to the trees, Rick shakes his head, and Daryl reaches out before he can process thinking about it. He grips Rick's arm, sliding down over rough skin until the arm turns slim enough that he can circle his fingers around it.

“Let's get you out of that, yeah?” He squeezes his fingers, picking at Rick's shirt with the other hand, heart in his throat and too many questions in his head. What the hell _did_ he tell her? What's it about, good God, he needs to know already. Whatever it is, it makes Rick feel guilty enough that he actually believes grief can be fucking measured, and that's one of the stupidest things he's ever heard.

For a moment, Rick blinks down at his own chest, at his open jeans and the blue briefs peeking through, at the bandage-former-shirt around his middle, all like he's seeing himself for the first time. Then he nods, slow, and stands, reaching down to button up his jeans again.

Daryl tracks the movement until he manages to avert his eyes and get up to get a fresh shirt. When he's inside the cabin, Rick's voice calls out to him, sounding rough.

“You too.”

That's all he says, but it ain't something he can obey. Rick was the one who packed the bags, and he only got two of his own shirts, one of which is used as a medical supply by now. Daryl glares at Rick's backpack and grabs a fresh set, then he goes back outside to witness Rick pulling his seriously rank shirt over his head with a hiss.

“Here.” Daryl holds the clothes like he's handing him something of importance, something worth his while instead of clothes that don't stink to the sky. The only thing missing is him taking a bow and he'd be the best servant ever.

Rick takes it without withdrawing his hand. “You too,” he says again, looking at his ear.

“'s fine.”

Slow like he's only just learning how to do it, Rick redresses himself, closing every button and then opening a few again, up by his throat. The shirt underneath shows, and Daryl lowers his eyebrows at it.

“Instead of watching me do it, you could do it yourself, you know.”

Daryl freezes.

“I couldn't find your stuff, dunno where you keep it since you don't have a room. Take one of mine.”

Lord above.

Face on fire, Daryl stalks off, picking through the shirts until he finds one he's reasonable sure about not losing every button once he tries to close it.

It's a close call.

He feels like back when Jesus gave him one of his. It's embarrassing, but he remembers Abraham once telling him 'chicks dig it'.

Nobody digs nothing his way, so Daryl keeps his eyes averted when he collects Rick's abandoned clothes, piling them in the corner of the room to take with them whenever they're going to leave again. No way he'll get Rosita to take back their clothes, he can already imagine the face she'd be pulling just for suggesting it.

*

Some time in the evening, the silence gets too intense even for him, grating on his nerves like fingernails scraping down a chalkboard, and Daryl sits down on his chair with a weary sigh, adjusting the buttons to keep breathing when the shirt tries to strangle him. The fire is already burning and Rick is eating his stew, slow but steady, and it's still warm enough and not dark enough to worry about Tara and Rosita not being back yet.

For all intents and purposes, it's a perfect night, and there's pressure behind his eyes like his head is gonna burst, throbbing and painful and uncalled-for.

“It's been a week,” Rick says, quiet, keeping his eyes on his stew.

Daryl scratches at his neck and focuses on Rick's hands, steady on both the spoon and the bowl. They're nice hands, now that he thinks about it.

Rick looks up, bending until he catches his eyes.

“I guess.” He hasn't kept track, but it ain't important anyhow. At least not if Rick is gonna say some stupid shit like going back. He can't even talk to anyone but him yet, there ain't no way he'll make it in Alexandria in the middle of a war.

“I miss Carl.”

The seconds tick by slow and uncomfortable until the atmosphere shifts and Daryl longs to hear the unstoppable chatter of Tara coming through the trees. Instead, Rick huffs and drops the bowl with a clatter.

Daryl watches it bounce off the wooden boards and braces himself for Rick's next words.

“Instead of this,” Rick says, voice low, “you could do literally anything else. You could go and be useful. Instead you're sitting here.”

Turns out, he isn't prepared at all.

“You hear me? Why don't you go do something useful? They're at war and you're sitting here not doing a thing. It's not enough, Daryl.” His voice is very calm and quiet, without any tone at all, and he ain't no shrink but it's clear as glass Rick is talking about himself. Doesn't mean it hurts any less to hear him say it.

And he can't just say that to Rick either. Unload another burden on his shoulders, making him think he's abandoning his people even if he _is._ Redirecting Rick's anger at him is the sanest option. For both of them.

“Guess I don't care that much,” Daryl says, swallowing.

“I see.”

Yeah, you don't. You ain't seeing shit. “There's more important matters.” Daryl nods, glancing over to gauge Rick's reaction and finding an angry grimace. Enough to keep his attention, not enough to make him go berserk. He knows all of his buttons, and it does come in handy sometimes.

“More important things? More important than killing him?”

Shrugging, Daryl stares ahead, forcing himself to keep breathing.

Rick scoffs. “He tortured you.”

“Yeah, all right. I remember,” Daryl says before he can stop himself. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the fire and the broth cooking over it, the trees around them. Smells he's known all his life. It helps to calm down, to say something honest for a change. “Can't kill all of them, so what's the point.”

Rick says nothing. After a while, the chair scrapes over the wood and Rick gets up, stopping right behind him. Still he doesn't say anything, and Daryl barely manages to stay seated, neck tensing with whatever is coming now.

First, it's Rick's hand, landing on his shoulder and sliding over the fabric. It holds on for a moment, fingers curling and thumb digging into the meat of his neck.

“I can't have you think like that,” Rick says. He presses down on the goosebumps and then he bows his head right next to his. “Daryl, look at me.”

Daryl swallows, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face—a fucking lie. He hides behind his hair, eyes down and face on fire when he swallows again, loud enough Rick will hear for sure even if he wouldn't be staring at his face, able to see him swallowing like an idiot.

“You can't let me treat you like that.” Rick breathes against his hair, gently swaying it. “You gotta stand up for yourself and not let me treat you like- you gotta, Daryl, I need you to know. It's important.”

Leaves rustle and Daryl's heart skips a beat, ecstatic about the moment being over and a lump in his throat just thinking about Rick moving away from him even though he's been in his space for nearly a week, never moving further than around the cabin. He shouldn't depend on him being close all the time.

It's gotta be unhealthy.

“Daryl, you heard what I just said? I need you to- you _have_ to-”

It's not Tara or Rosita. It's a walker, stinking and slow and a glorious fucking sight.

The crossbow leans against the post, and Daryl stands. “I heard you,” he says, grabbing it and pulling the string back without looking at Rick in case—just in case. “And I ain't have to do shit,” he adds, quieter than he meant to.

Arrow loaded and crossbow ready, he turns to the walker, taking his time to aim just to savor the feeling of doing something productive. It's over faster than he likes, and when the thing drops to the ground with a final snarl, the door to the cabin closes behind him and Daryl licks his lips, walking over to retrieve his arrow. He pretends his heart beats in overtime from the physical extortion when he pulls the body to the edge of the clearing, out of smelling-distance, instead of thinking about Rick lying down to sleep not a foot away from his own blanket, face unreadable and demands coming heavy again.

He should take watch.

Yeah, he should.

He does, and he even fights with both Rosita and Tara when they come back, looking a bit worse for wear but with enough dynamite to get the job done. He'll be tired, but it's gotta be better than—it's gotta be better.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Daryl spends the night pouring over the map and memorizing every possible route and place of attack until he's sure he can find his way back from any given point. The rest of the time, he frets over what to do with Rick until said man steps out of the cabin before Tara and Rosita even wake up. His face is set, head held high when he comes over, rolling up his sleeves and nodding at the map in his lap.

“You figured out which one's the best?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Do you plan to share that info?” Rick raises his eyebrows, complete with his hands on his hips.

“You wanna come?” He clears his throat, mouth dry and unpleasant and jaw still faintly aching.

Good.

Inside the cabin, someone gets up, whispering quietly.

“If you tell me which way to go,” Rick says, pausing. “I'll follow you anyway, but I'd feel better if I knew where we're going.”

For good measure, he clears his throat again. “All right,” he says and waves Rick over, shifting his hair out of the way when Rick leans down to follow his finger pointing out the various routes and spots he made out during the night.

After a while, Tara joins them and pops her back with a sigh. “I couldn't live like this,” she says, stepping closer just when Rick takes a step back. “Don't know how you guys do it.”

“Which one do you think is best?” Rick looks at him, and Daryl feels his face twitch and then grow hot under the scrutiny and the way the man simply ignores Tara. For him.

To be polite, he gives her a nod before he turns back to Rick. “Dunno, there's several points we could hit. Dependin' on what we wanna do. Swamp would be good, but we can start wherever.” Walker-soup, as Jesus put it. Fucker was right, apparently.

Rick nods, ignoring Rosita blinking at him from the side and grabbing two bottles of water, handing one over to him. “The swamp it is, then.”

“You seem chipper,” Rosita says, slow and frowning.

“It's kind of eerie, actually. And creepy. No offense.” Tara grins, doing a little wiggle like— actually, he has no idea why she's doing it.

“Thank you,” Rick says, solemn, and takes a huge gulp of water.

“Where do you want us to go?”

There's a beat of silence until Daryl realizes everyone is staring at him. “What- yeah. Guess the crossroads, if you wanna?”

They're bending down over the map again, and his face feels warm, heart beating steadily under the attention until they finish their small breakfast and start dividing the dynamite.

Rosita packs the bags, hands steady and careful. “That should do it,” she says, looking down for a moment. “We can stash the rest inside for the time being, but we should find a safe place for it once we get back.”

Daryl grunts, taking the leftover dynamite and carefully carrying it inside. “Can't do shit with it once it rains, though.”

“I'm not saying we should put it up in a tree, just that I don't want to blow up while I'm sleeping.”

When he gets back out, Tara stuffs some of the food into her backpack before she heaves it on her back. Rosita follows, if much more careful with her own pack. “We're doing this or what?”

“One more time.”

They look at Rick, and the silence feels uncomfortable despite the fact that he's been leading them since for-fucking-ever and has only been—out of it for a few _days_ compared to everything before.

“We wait for your explosion, then we set off our own, leading the stray walkers our way and, hopefully, ripping a big enough hole in the street so these assholes can't cross over with their trucks.” For a moment, Tara looks terrifying. Daryl blinks, taken aback, and then it's gone and she smiles again. “We hole up in the cabin we found, and in the morning, we meet back here.”

Daryl nods and swings his crossbow over his shoulder. “Let's do this, then.”

They part ways with one last wave, and then he's alone with Rick, standing dumbly.

“You good?” Daryl asks, glancing up at the man's face.

“This would be easier if we had vehicles.” Rick huffs, unholstering the Python and checking the bullets. “We should pack some food too, just in case.”

For a moment, Daryl simply stands, thoughts tumbling around in his head. Then it's too much. “So, you're back to normal now or what?”

Rick looks up. “What do you mean?”

“With all the talkin' you've been doin' lately.” Daryl shakes his head. “Is just different now, you know.”

“It wasn't like I wasn't able to talk,” Rick says slowly. “I just didn't feel like it.”

Daryl glares. “Makes sense.” He reaches for the pack with the dynamite, slowly stringing it over his shoulders and keeping his eyes off Rick and his weird antics. Or whatever face he's pulling. It ain't a good one, that's for sure.

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Rick offers. He sounds unsure, and it raises Daryl's hackles.

“You didn't.”

“You should've said something if-”

“This- man, all I was gonna say is that I'm surprised you're back on track.” Face warm, Daryl looks at the trees and taps his foot. “You're gonna pack some food now or what?”

There's a huff of breath which could be a laugh, but Daryl doesn't turn around to look at it, just in case. He waits until Rick appears at his side, his own backpack slung over his shoulder, and then they're off.

The walk to the swamp takes them a good few hours, and while they're started when it was still morning, the sun is way past its peak when they finally arrive—at something that truly does look like it's supposed to be walker-soup.

“Ain't that a pretty sight.” Daryl sighs, setting down his backpack with care.

Rick snorts. “We got a few hours, might as well make use of the time.” He looks around, looking like he's counting the bodies. “They could get unstuck once the load explodes. Best not to risk it.”

Daryl loads his crossbow and confirms that his knife is still where it's supposed to be; under his belt. “Don't get stuck,” he says, glancing at Rick and waiting for his nod.

They get to work.

Daryl shoots until he's out of arrows, then he tries to walk over the already fallen bodies to get to the rest with his knife. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Rick doing the same, if maybe with a bit more grace. Makes sense, with his slimmer frame. Skinny. Long legs and all, must be easier.

With a huff, Daryl refocuses and kills the rest of the walkers he's able to reach, then he starts plucking out his arrows.

When he balances back to solid ground, Rick is in the process of clambering out of the mud, fighting with his boot and looking _very_ put out. For a moment, Daryl watches, feeling his mouth twitch upwards like it plans to smile. It's uncalled-for. This is his friend, just barely recovered - or at least on his way to recovery - he shouldn't make fun of—Rick falls, face first.

“Jesus, man.” Daryl giggles and hurries over, grabbing Rick by the elbows to pull him up and out.

The shoe plops loose with a squishy sound.

“Shut up,” Rick says without any heat, and when Daryl gets a look at his face, his cheeks look red. It's an impossible sight, and Daryl forgets his plans for a moment.

“You done staring?”

God fuck. “Shut up,” Daryl mutters, walking back to his crossbow and wiping the arrows with a leaf.

Rick follows, keeping a few feet of distance between them. “I didn't mean it like that,” he says, oddly enough. Daryl concentrates on the leaf crumbling between his fingers. Stupid thick fingers. Not skinny like— “Daryl.” Rick does what he always does when he's set on getting a look at his face; bending until he has to look in his eyes.

Feeling old, he glances up through his hair. “What.”

“Just pickin' on you.” Rick raises his eyebrows. “You can stare all you like.”

That hangs between them for a moment, then Rick straightens up and lets his eyes roam like he's taking in the scenery and there aren't dozens of dead, rotting bodies all around them stuck in goddamn mud. “Guess that came out wrong, too.”

“I have actually no idea what you're talkin' about, so that's just fine.”

Rick turns back, a small grin on his face. “Guess I'm still trying to get back in the game.” It sounds like a question, and he's had enough. Enough of riddles and jokes and weird silences.

“Let's check the other side, make sure them trees are thick enough a car won't get through once we blow this one up.”

Rick nods, thank the Lord, and they get back to work.

The street is right next to the tree line and leads in a slight curve around the swamp. Once they blow a hole in it, cars would either have to try to go through the mud - hopefully getting stuck - or they'd have to bring a serious arsenal of axes to cut down the trees. Either way, it means a major dent in their schedule, and that's all they can hope for now. Stalling their plans.

After the checkup, they lay out the dynamite. Rick, claiming he's already muddy enough, volunteers to be the one balancing over the walkers to get through the middle of the swamp to lay the line. When he's back safe and sound without (much) new mud on him, they look at their work, checking for holes in the plan.

“Think this will do?”

Rick shrugs and nods at the same time. “Can't see why not. We do it now, the stray walkers around will get stuck like the ones before did, and everyone else will be drawn in by the second explosion. I don't think it's getting crowded enough in there for them to unstuck each other. If that's a word.”

Daryl grins, bumping their shoulders and immediately feeling stupid about it. “Guess so,” he says, meeting Rick's eyes and holding them for a moment. “Grab our stuff?”

Humming, Rick bends to pick up their backpacks, handing Daryl's over and then bending down a second time to get his crossbow.

“What you're hummin' about, mh?” There are goosebumps on his arms and there shouldn't be. It's warm enough. Sticky even. He'll probably sweat through the new shirt too, and then what? Yeah, then what.

“Nothin'.” Rick holds the lighter, waiting for his nod.

They get in position; Daryl a few feet past the tree line, biting his lip and watching Rick fiddling with the lighter.

The second the fuse is burning, Rick starts to sprint, grabbing Daryl by the arm like he wouldn't have started running otherwise. It's stupid and nice, and Daryl blinks down at the earth rushing past him, jumping over a low hanging branch without any grace or care for being quiet, and sprints on.

The explosion goes off when they're far enough away to not get sprinkled with mud, and a wave of righteousness surges through him, good and warm and right. Productive. Worth their time - worth Rick's time. This is what they're supposed to do, this is where they belong, out here wreaking havoc.

There's a walker, and it's ugly.

His good mood dwindles a bit, but after Rick disposes of it, they slow down to a jog and eventually to a walk, catching their breaths and making their way back to the hut. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Rick smiling. He's seen him smiling a lot lately, but most of it was directed at trees and now too trees surround them. It's not too far-fetched to think Rick is again smiling at a tree.

“Feels good,” Rick says, quiet and still out of breath. His arm bumps against him, and something in his neck relaxes, a muscle he pulled taut for too long without knowing it was there in the first place.

Yeah, feels good.

*

When they arrive back at the hut, the sun is still up, if already hanging lower in the sky. Daryl drops his backpack with a sigh and unloads the food and water they didn't have a use for, gulping down half of a bottle and handing Rick the rest. It's a habit now, and he's had worse habits, if he's honest. Rick isn't taking it though, he's busy standing in the middle of the room without moving a muscle.

With a slight tug in his belly, Daryl steps closer and clears his throat. “You good?”

There is no answer. Rick doesn't move, back straight and stance loose, hands curled loosely next to his thighs. Uneasy, Daryl follows his line of sight—to the leftover dynamite.

There ain't a single reason how that could be a good sign. Of course there's be a setback now, after doing good today.

Daryl squares his shoulders, moving forward until he's standing next to his friend. He leaves a bit of space so they're not touching, just in case Rick's gone off the deep end again.

“I could do it. Do it right now,” Rick says, clear but slow like he's weighing his options. Like he's _contemplating_ his options.

Something tugs at the back of his mind. An old idea, an ancient idea. His throat closes up, and then he stares ahead, looking at the wall. “You could,” Daryl says, rough. “Doesn't sound like somethin' you would do, but you could.”

Rick whips around and points an accusing finger at him, face torn up with anger like _he's_ the one proposing to blow them to hell. Fucking typical. “You should try to stop me, not standing there all fucking serene!”

“Rick.” Daryl looks down. “I ain't gonna stop you. If you wanna blow us up, you're gonna blow us up no matter what I say.” His heart hammers. “Reckon it ain't worth the effort.”

Rick stomps away and starts to pace. Every time he makes a turn, he huffs. Loudly.

It goes on and on and on, long enough that he's trying to make peace with the idea of getting blown up even though he knows Rick won't do it. He ain't putting it past Officer Friendly to end his miserable piece of existence, but there ain't no way he'd pull him down with him. That's not the man he knows. He knows him. Rick wouldn't.

Maybe he should, but he wouldn't.

And there ain't no reason he should be disappointed about it either. Glad. Glad is what he's gotta aim for.

Daryl looks up when Rick makes another sharp turn, boots thudding against the wood. It's comforting, for strange reasons. “You decided yet?”

“You should leave.” Rick nods, hands twitching. “I'll do it.”

This is it, then. This is—maybe this is the end after all. Could be worse. Could be better, but could be way worse, too. It will be over in a second or even less. No one's gonna know it was Rick, it'll look like an accident, and the rest of them will go on.

Daryl nods. “'m good here,” he says, proud about not flinching back when Rick lets out something that maybe, possibly, is supposed to be a laugh.

“Are you blackmailing me? Do you think I won't do it because you choose to stay here?” Rick stares at him, eyes white and crazy like in his best times.

“Just waitin' for you to make up your mind. Earlier you were- yeah, 's not important. I ain't gonna leave.” He takes a step to the side and leans against the wall, feeling worn. Rick keeps his eyes on him, and he's fairly sure he sees him, too. Actually _sees_ him. “It's still a stupid way to go, you gotta know that. Wouldn't mean shit,” he adds quietly.

Rick moves so fast Daryl blinks and then he's there already, directly in his space. He leans against the wall too, with his shoulder, and glares at him from a few inches away.

That's what he gets for changing his mind about dying.

“You done then?” he asks boldly. It comes out hoarse, but now ain't the time to be embarrassed.

The glare continues. Rick specifically leans a bit more forward for it.

“Cause I could use somethin' to eat that didn't expire a year ago. Or grows sprouts.”

They go.

His face is on fire for most of the hunt, but the sun is setting and Rick kills five walkers, not sparing him a glance except for directions, so Daryl lets his face be his face and focuses on the small tracks he spots between the trees. It's not only one rabbit, it's two, and when they walk back to the hut, his heart beats steady and fast with something he doesn't have a name for yet. Something he doesn't want to have a name for. Yet.

Rick relights the fire and Daryl guts the rabbits, and it's nice.

No one says a word. They eat in the flickering glow of the fire like they used to do all these months on the road, even abandoning their chairs and sitting down on the ground for it. It's so goddamn freeing, Daryl feels an old urge rising, and after he licks his finger clean, he trudges inside to the dirty pile of clothes and rummages around until he finds the smoke Jesus gave him.

Back outside, he lights it, smoking in peace and blinking through the smoke of both the cigarette and the fire at Rick looking right back at him, face half in the shadows, unreadable and not in the slightest bit off-putting.

Sometimes, he wonders if there's anything he wouldn't do for the man and then, after, he's scared that one of these days, Rick will have the same thought. Maybe he had it already. Ain't the first time he offered to die for him or with him, and it ain't something he should've done once, yet he's at a loss about how to stop wanting it, almost wishing it was out of obligation. It ain't. It's about something else, something more shameful.

*

They stay outside until the fire burns out, feeling high on the success of the day, maybe even unkillable. Rick is the first to wander inside, leaving the door open like he suspects Daryl to follow.

He does, after taking a piss and making sure the fire won't flare up again. Then he walks inside, lingering in the doorway. “Someone's gonna take watch,” he says unnecessarily. Not 'someone'. _He_ is. Rick isn't ready yet, not if he wants to blow them up.

Which reminds him to take the dynamite outside.

Rick lies on his back, face barely visible with the moon being the only source of light, shining through both the door and the window. From what he can tell, Rick looks relaxed, and that makes him uneasy enough to take the dynamite and put it in his empty backpack.

“You're gonna put it outside?”

Daryl nods, hovering.

“Come back, after.”

Someone's gotta take watch, Grimes. Look out for your bony ass.

Daryl nods again, marching outside to stash the backpack a bit away from the bushes at the backside of the hut, close enough no one can steal it without them knowing and far enough away they won't blow up if a walker manages to stumble over it and set the whole thing off. Then he walks back, steps slow and halting, and decides to stall by looking up in the sky, trying to guess the time.

Ain't important, either. It's still nice, seeing the stars. He's seen them so often over the course of his life, being in the woods, far out in the middle of nothing but trees. Except for inside cities, they've always been visible, but now - god, there are so many. With basically each and every artificial light on the planet turned off, it's like they multiplied by the thousands. He could live to a hundred years - as unlikely as that would be - and he wouldn't be able to count them all.

It would still be a better way to spend his time than finding out whatever Rick has to say. Or whatever it is he wants to do. Probably not blowing them up, since he was calm enough knowing he took the dynamite outside. Thank the Lord they're alone and Rosita wasn't there to witness any of it.

With one last look and a sigh that's a bit too long even for his own taste, Daryl goes back inside, trying to adjust his eyes to make out Rick's outline. The blanket is thrown over him and his breathing is even and regular, it's possible he's asleep already.

Daryl takes a step forward, listening. “Rick?” he whispers even though he could just fucking go outside. No reason to wake Rick to have a conversation he doesn't want to have in the first place.

“I think,” Rick says, voice so quiet Daryl isn't sure he's meant to hear it, but then Rick tries again. “I think you're supposed to make me care instead of waiting for me to kill you.”

His knees bend without his say, and Daryl crouches down next to him, blocking all the light so he's unable to see Rick's face and also unable to move when Rick's hand wiggles out from under the blanket and closes around his calf. “Dunno,” Daryl says roughly. Fuck, he'll cry, this ain't right.

“That's okay,” Rick says. “I'm telling you.”

His eyes burn. Daryl huffs out a breath, flinching when it comes out with a quiet sound underneath and praying Rick didn't hear it. Which is impossible with him being only a few inches away. Get a fucking grip, Dixon. “That what you want?” he mutters, “Want me to make you care?”

The hand on his calf twitches, then Rick squeezes and draws away, rearranging the blanket for long enough it's clear that he's trying to make himself comfortable. There won't be no answer, and Daryl doesn't know what to do anymore.

“I'll be outside.” He waits, and then he gets up and walks to the door. On a hunch, he leaves it open and sits down on the chair in front of it, feet up on the railing and crossbow in his lap. He feels Rick's eyes against his back, and he's too much of all, too much of everything, to turn around.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Rick gets up and comes marching out while Daryl tries to uncramp his legs, sand in his eyes from staring through the darkness and mind foggy since not one walker showed up all night to distract him from his thoughts. He managed to stay awake by willpower only, and now Rick walks over with his face set, going straight to his backpack and rummaging around until he straightens up with a—pen in his hand.

Daryl stares, trying to get his mind to wake up.

“I don't want anything,” Rick says, and it takes Daryl a good few seconds to connect the words to his question from the night before, and then he can't decide whether it's a good or a bad answer. He settles on staring, but Rick doesn't see, he bustles inside again and comes out a few moments later, dirty clothes under his arm.

“You goin' somewhere?” Daryl asks, voice rough and frown ready to go.

“Alexandria. These need washing.” Rick stuffs the clothes into his backpack, then his hand stills on the zipper and he glances up. “For a visit,” he clarifies.

Daryl looks away. “Sounds good.”

Trying to get his body to wake up too, he stretches and disappears between the trees to take a piss—and get one last minute of peace. Out of Rick's line of sight. The constant staring isn't doing anything to calm the nerves that should be calm in the first place, yet here he is, staring at a tree and pretending it takes a full minute to close up his jeans again.

When he trudges back, Rick stands in front of the door, backpack over his shoulder, gun in his holster, and hands on his hips. He looks so much like before, Daryl's heart clenches for a moment.

“I left a note in case Tara and Rosita come back before we do.”

“Sounds good,” Daryl says again, averting his eyes to get his own stuff while Rick's boot taps a rhythm against the floorboards, then they're off through the woods. The first time, the walk took hours on end, but they didn't have a goal back then. Now, he guesses, it shouldn't take longer than an hour. Especially since Carol was here.

Who gave her the directions anyway? That she thought it safe enough to travel with Judith? Must've been Jesus. Daryl shakes his head, sighing and ignoring Rick staring at him from the side.

It's pointless.

“What's the plan?” he asks to fill the silence, sort of pleased when Rick's steps falter. But there ain't no answer, and Rick's face is pinched.

“Catch up with Carl,” Rick says, slow like he thinks he wouldn't _approve_ of that. “Sit with Judith for a while. That sort of thing.”

Daryl hums, heart swelling.

“I guess you don't even have to come,” Rick says, slow again. “If you don't want to. I can get there on my own.”

Daryl walks on. “Yeah, you can.” Ain't an option, Grimes. Just give up.

“Wash our clothes, get some fresh ones.” Rick shrugs. There's a dead leaf on his shoulder, and Daryl's hand twitches. “Get some more food, you know.” He looks down like he's focusing on the earth beneath his feet, and Daryl reaches out, brushing off the leaf and managing to only linger for a second too long while Rick heaves a breath like he plans to make a confession. “We stay for a bit longer, yeah? Here.”

“It's fine,” Daryl says, but it's not enough. Never fucking enough to get through that thick skull of his friend. “We stay as long as we like. Rick, man. I'm not- By now you gotta know I ain't goin' nowhere.”

“I know that. I _know_ that. Guess I just can't wrap my mind around it, with everything.” Rick huffs. “You never told me where you keep your stuff, though.”

Daryl blinks at a clump of moss. “Don't have much,” he offers.

“And that not-much stuff you have, where's that?” It sounds like a question he can't refuse, a bit like an order, really, and he was never good at defying those. If they came from Rick.

“Aaron's garage,” he mutters, shrugging when Rick comes to a halt. “Was never there much, just needed a place to store the few things I have. The rest I've got with me anyway.”

Rick works his jaw, but he gets moving again. “You could've kept it in our house.”

Daryl marches on, willing Alexandria closer even though they haven't walked for longer than 20 minutes. Lord above, he hopes Rick ain't gonna be this chatty the whole fucking day. At least not with these kinds of topics.

“Daryl.”

“Ain't my house.”

“It was,” Rick says at once. “It is. How- Daryl, 'our' includes you, I thought you knew that.”

Oh, he knows, but Rick's 'ours' didn't mean the group. “Dunno why we're havin' this conversation. I know by now, all right, but it wasn't the group you meant. Was your family.”

“You are family. I told you-” Rick stops, looking so pinched he wouldn't be surprised if the man busted a vein. “Never mind. Forget it, forget I said anything. You can get a few shirts from Aaron's, yeah?”

Daryl blinks, heart beating wildly without an actual reason for it. “Yeah.” Any more of this and he'll burst right out of his skin with that weird and loaded tension hanging around them, and then there'll be left nothing but goddamn ashes. See what Rick's talking at then, making even the ashes so uncomfortable they'll fucking wish for a breeze to blow them away.

“Just saying, cause these-” Rick pauses, nodding at his shirt. “Look like they're a pretty tight fit.”

His face is on fire.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and Daryl only just manages to keep himself from fumbling with the hem of his shirt. Rick's shirt. He ain't wrong, it does sit pretty tight. But it ain't as uncomfortable as Jesus' shirt was, for some reason.

The train of thought disappears somewhere into the back of his mind when they reach the gates. People stare, and Rick walks straight up to the house, ignoring them all. Daryl trudges behind, peeling the backpack from Rick's shoulders when Carl comes outside to meet them, Judith against his chest and a half-smile on his face. He excuses himself with a mumble and goes inside, sidestepping Carol's accusatory eyes and rushing on to the washing machine.

It's already running, and he dumps their clothes in front of it with a sigh.

“I'll take care of it.”

Carol stands behind him, keeping a bit of distance.

He turns, heart heavy and apology ready on his tongue, but she holds up her hand and stalls him before he can even open his mouth.

“Now isn't the time,” she says. “And you shouldn't be here yet. Let me take care of these, I'll bring them back the next time.”

“Why shouldn't I be here?” Ain't no way she really wants him gone for good, that ain't possible, is it, is it—

Her hand lands on his shoulder, small and without much pressure, and the corners of mouth are pointing down instead of up. “We're going to talk about it, just not now. It's fine, Daryl.”

The floor is dirty. Probably from his own shoes. He keeps dragging mud and earth everywhere, practically leading a trail so everyone knows where to find him at all times.

“You told me what I needed to hear,” Carol says, quiet. “You didn't tell me about _you_. I had to hear it from the others. And I left,” she adds after a pause. “We can talk about all of it, but it has time.”

Daryl nods, lump in his throat. God, he was so wrong.

The hand leaves his shoulder and comes up to his chin, turning it up so he has to look in her face. “I'm not angry and I hope you aren't either.” The strength of her is almost frightening. She talks about anger and conversations like it's something he can actually do or overcome, not something that has him in its grip. Always had, always will. Ain't nothing he can control.

“Gotta go to Aaron's,” he offers, wincing when his voice does something funny. He shakes his head, and Carol drops her hand, taking a step back.

“You go on ahead. If I can squeeze out some time, I'll come visit again.”

They part ways with an awkward pat on her shoulder from his part, images of their last hug flooding his mind, the way she clung to him, begging without words to reassure her that everything was fine. He did, he did and he shouldn't have, and here they are, clapping shoulders.

He leaves the house with Rick sitting on the couch with Judith, Carl working in the kitchen, and Carol sorting they're laundry. He leaves it all behind, and the moment he steps outside, he catches Aaron looking over, beard long and face hard, and something else clutches at his heart.

Maybe Carol was right after all, maybe he shouldn't have come here. Yet. Or whatever.

Aaron meets him halfway.

By now, the street is free of blood and bodies, both from walkers and their own. For a moment, he thinks about visiting the cemetery, but then Aaron is already there, reaching out to clap his shoulder and dropping his hand again before he connects. It's a familiar gesture. His face looks harder, but it's still the same, reassuring enough that Daryl blows out a breath and follows Aaron to his garage, listening to the few things he wants to share. Ain't much, and he ain't much listening either, but maybe Aaron knows that, too.

After a while, Eric peeks around the corner, and Daryl tries to look busy when Aaron walks over and they have a hushed conversation. He packs some shirts and jeans, momentarily proud when he remembers to pack socks too, and then his social batteries - never quite full even on good days - are as good as drained, and he finds himself glancing over at Rick's house quicker and quicker.

Just before he can't manage to hold back any longer, Jesus comes walking down the street, looking more at home in this town with walls and fences than he ever did.

It's curious, and bullshit too, because who the hell even cares? He does, apparently, and as soon as Jesus spots him - however he manages to do that with the way he's lurking in Aaron's garage despite the fact that Aaron left to wherever a while ago - he marches over.

Jogs.

Striding over with carefree steps, smiling his stupid smile. The nearer he gets, the more it falls off.

Reasonably sure he ain't pulling a worse face than usual, Daryl sighs.

“You back?” Jesus stops in front of him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his stupid coat. “Or are you visiting?”

“Visitin'.”

Jesus nods, smiling with one side of his mouth.

“Guess someone ought to tell you - Aaron's spoken for. No chance there, I reckon.” Jesus Christ. _Jesus Christ._

Jesus blinks, and all of a sudden, he laughs, somewhat breathless. Daryl turns away.

“Oh, hey, come on.” Jesus catches up to him, matching his steps without bumping against him. “Thank you, I guess, but that wasn't the reason I came by. I wanted to share some good news with you guys. Or you, since I saw you just now.”

“You really do never shut up, do you?”

“Nope.” Jesus laughs, then he clears his throat. “Anyway, in case you want to know: your idea inspired some people in Hilltop to follow your example-”

“What?”

Jesus slows down. “Laying traps, making it as hard as possible for the Saviors to get to us in great numbers? Or to get to us _fast_ in great numbers. They're all getting ready.”

Lord above. “That ain't-” Daryl says, swallowing. Yeah, that fucking ain't.

“Doesn't matter,” Jesus says with a small smile. “It's doing some good. You're doing good, and you inspired people, especially those not good enough to actually fight. They have something to do, and that's all that matters.”

“Daryl.”

Just like that, his heart skips a beat. Rick stands on the porch, looking down at them with his backpack slung over his shoulder, and Daryl could cry right there and then.

He doesn't, of course, but it's a close call.

“Gotta go,” he says to Jesus, glancing up and waiting until he catches his gaze. Then he nods, letting him know he heard and understood even if he can't say anything about it. It's possible Jesus knows about that by now anyway.

They leave.

Rick slaloms them around groups of busy-looking people, and Daryl breathes again when they're out of hearing and seeing range of the fences, feeling small and pathetic. Overall goddamn shitty, all right.

“Our idea inspired some of them Hilltop folks to do the same.” He scoffs, tightening his grip on the strap of his crossbow.

Rick hums. “Your idea.”

It's all he says, and they walk the rest of the way in silence.

*

It's getting dark when they arrive back at the cabin, but it's still easy enough to find; in front of it, the fire is already burning, and Tara pokes at something cooking over the fire while Rosita relaxes with her feet up on the railing.

They make enough noise to be heard, and Tara looks up, waving. “Hey there.”

“How did it go?” Daryl asks, plopping down on the free chair and trying to ignore Rick ignoring them and walking straight into the cabin. The door shuts behind him, and Daryl refocuses on Rosita.

She looks at him without even trying to hide her eye roll. “Everything worked out according to plan,” she says, and then she yawns. “Got a few stragglers, but nothing serious, and I managed to get us a rabbit on the way back.”

“A rabbit,” Daryl says, slow. “With what? You shoot it?”

Tara laughs, bumping her knee against his. “It was already half-dead, all right. She caught it with her hands.” She looks at Rosita, smiling in a weird way. “Anyway,” she says. “That's why we're roasting _and_ cooking it. Just in case.”

“Mh.”

“How about you?”

“I ate.”

“Oh my god.” Tara laughs again, and Daryl glares up in her face, for the first time actually seeing that she's full of dried blood. “I meant the plan, you weirdo.”

Right. “Went well.”

“Yeah? And you went to Alexandria today?”

“What's this, twenty questions?”

The door opens and Rick steps out, hair standing up in every possible way like he carded his fingers through it for the last minutes.

“Just saying,” Tara says and pokes at the rabbit again. “You could've washed, you know. Taken a shower? In a house? When you were _in town_.”

Daryl glances at Rick, and they share a look. That—didn't occur to him at all.

“You saying we're ripe?” Rick mutters.

Rosita snorts. “If you want to use that word, yeah. I'd say 'ripe' expired a few days ago, but who am I to tell you to clean up. I'm not your mother.” She turns, looking at him. “Or yours, for that matter.”

“Jesus, woman.” Daryl stands, stumbling when his foot catches on the strap of his backpack.

“Did you take watch last night?”

A longing rises in him, sudden and uncalled-for.

It pulls him in two different directions at once, this stupid longing; wanting to spend time with his friend, checking his wound and getting him to talk, just—being for a while. On the other hand, having more people around here means—means sleeping with him. At the same time. God, he's tired. His eyes burn already. Or maybe it's the smoke.

“He did,” Rick says, voice low like he didn't want to speak up. Well. Not his fault they're all in such a hurry they can't wait for him to finish his train of thought.

“God, go to sleep already, I can barely watch this. You're gonna keel over and land right in the fire, and then you're gonna burn to death and attract every walker for miles.”

They look at Tara doing her little wiggle dance again.

“I have actually no idea why I said that. Oh, wait, before you go—what I said before - you know where the lake is, right? In case you suddenly developed a phobia of actual showers.”

“Fine.” Face hot, he stomps off and leaves them to snicker. Rick doesn't, but he ain't got nothing to snicker about anyway, he's just as dirty as he is.

Inside, Daryl heaves a sigh and plops down onto his blanket, trying to get rid of his boots without sitting up. And failing. He grumbles for a bit, and then his traitorous heart skips a beat when the door opens.

It's Rosita. She hovers, and then she huffs and goes to sleep, and Daryl gives up, leaving his boots on and closing eyes.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late again, sorry. Updating on Fridays wasn't my best idea... :)   
> I also misjudged how long it would take to finish this with updating twice a week, and I want to be through with it before NaNo starts, so I'll post the rest of the chapters until the end of the month. I hope that's okay with all of you :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!

It's so quiet, his heartbeat is the only sound he hears. Then comes his breathing, harsh, and a weird tingling sensation at the back of his neck. “Mornin'.”

“Rick,” he rushes out, shaking his head to get rid of the fog in his brain.

“Did I wake you? Didn't mean to.” Rick sits in the corner of the room, knees raised and arms folded on top of them. His face is in the shadows, but it looks like he's—okay. Peaceful maybe, for the lack of a better word. 

“'s fine,” Daryl mutters, turning away from the window to face his friend. “The others?”

“Left.” Rick taps his fingers against his knees, and Daryl could swear he's smiling. “Said they'd be back by evening, but from the way Rosita's been huffing, I wouldn't be so sure.”

“Ah, let her.” Daryl clears his throat, pulling a face against the gross taste, and from one second to the next, he actually feels disgusting. Rotten. “Any plans for the day?” he asks, trying for offhand and raising up on his elbow. Now that he knows, he's got to do something about it. There's no way around it, especially not when he pushes his hair out of his face and his fingers get caught in a greasy strand of hair. Again.

“Seems like you have a plan.”

“Maybe.” He hasn't looked at Rick's wound for a while, and now they've got bandages, courtesy of Rick who - unlike him - isn't entirely useless and remembered to pack some the day before. For once, he has a plan - a good one - so Daryl grins. Then he isn't sure it's visible from where Rick sits, and it falters again. “What you're sittin' there for anyway?”

“Waiting.” Rick shrugs. “Trying to take my mind off of things.”

There's nothing he can say to that without being awkward, and then he makes it awkward anyway, sitting up with a cough. “Saved me some breakfast?”

Scraping his heels over the wood, Rick sighs and stretches out his legs. “I don't think you noticed, but I always thought it's amazing how you're able to calm me down just by sleeping. Think it's the way you breathe.” Daryl freezes, and Rick huffs out a laugh. “I've always listened for it. Guess it's just the idea of someone with your senses being calm enough to sleep. It can't be too bad then, right? You wouldn't sleep if there's anything off. Anything going on.”

There's something in his throat, stuck. Daryl tries to sputter and it sounds like he's having a seizure. 

“Sorry, figured you didn't really want to hear that.” This time, Rick's grin is obvious. “And yeah, I saved some breakfast. What's the plan you're sitting on, then?”

Not dying of heart failure would be a good start. “Lake,” he says, and more words won't come. 

Apparently, it's still enough.

Rick gets up with a hum and leaves him to change his clothes, and a few minutes later, they're sitting outside. Daryl eats while Rick sorts through their packs, hands quick and sure like they used to be. It's only been ten days, give or take, and it feels like forever even though it took months after Lori. He's so much better already, if they had known back then—moot point.

“It'll take about an hour to get there, I guess.” Rick bends over the map. “It's about the way Aaron brought us when we first came here.” Rick looks up, eyebrows raised and face open, and he looks so much like before, recognition shivers down Daryl's back, weirdly warm.

“There any good spots?” he asks, managing to hold eye-contact until Rick looks at the map again. “To blow somethin' up,” he adds, unnecessary, as it turns out.

“Could be,” Rick says, fast like he already checked instead of simply planning the route to the lake. “Take some dynamite with us, see what we can see?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Without his input, his lips curve upwards and they smile at each other, and then he has enough and clears his throat. “Let's get goin'.”

The hike does take about an hour, and they spend it in companionable silence, eventually blinking through sun beating down between the crowns of the trees. Makes him wonder how long he slept and how long Rick sat there, waiting. Or listening. 

Whatever.

When the lake comes into view, he sets down his backpack, mindful of the dynamite, and lets out a long sigh. Next to him, Rick stares at the water like he's never seen a lake in his life.

Determined to wash off the days upon days worth of grime, blood, and sweat, Daryl takes off his boots and unbuttons his shirt, and some restless energy leaves him when Rick gets moving, too. He sees it in his peripheral view. Privacy and all, he won't watch Rick—but he stopped moving. At least all noises stopped, there ain't no rustling of clothes or the sound of skin sliding over fabric; nothing like Rick stopped moving altogether, and that ain't going well with either undressing or washing.

Daryl glances over, uneasy.

Rick sits on his ass, map spread out over his lap and the most focused look on his face. 

Well then. That's fine. 

He can go through with his plan. Rick has seen it all before. Rick knows. He's known since the farm and Hershel fixing him up, and there were no clothes in the cell either, and guess who lived - he. No reason to get all coy now, especially not when Rick ain't even looking in his direction.

His fingers shake, and Daryl clamps his mouth shut around a huff and peels out of his clothes. Torn between the urge to hide his scars and turn his back away from Rick, he's doing a stupid twirl when he realizes it ain't no good to drop his pants and hold all of his private parts in Rick's line of sight either. It's mortifying, actually, and uncalled-for. They've been on the road for months, he washed in lakes and streams before.

Alone. After the others were done.

It's the fucking end of the world and here he stands, shy like a schoolgirl. Daryl grits his teeth and drops his pants.

The earth keeps on turning, and Rick keeps on focusing on the map.

Daryl marches into the water, splashing water everywhere and making such a ruckus he's sure Rick has to be looking over by now. He doesn't dare to check and focuses on the feeling of his balls fleeing back into his body instead. With the trees hanging over the edge of the lake, the water is cold as hell, but it serves its purpose by distracting him.

He dives under, soaking in the water like a frying pan in need to steep for a while before one should even try to wash off the burnt crust, then he starts washing. At first, he hurries, but when he glances up to see Rick still sitting on the bank and looking out over the lake, Daryl takes his time about it. Ain't no reason to hurry when he's got to march out clean but naked and freezing and cock for everyone out to see while Rick does nothing to keep himself busy. 

He better doesn't think he's gonna help him wash. Or undress—but he's gotta look at the wound, and what if Rick wants to do that after he washed - which would make sense - then he'd be without clothes. 

The thought is alarming in a way Daryl hadn't thought possible, and he lingers even after being as clean as he's gonna get until he finally gathers up all the courage he can manage and clears his throat. “You gonna come in here anytime soon or you're gonna wait 'til them clothes find the way on their own?”

Rick looks up. There's some kind of glint in his eyes, and he cocks his head to the side. “I thought I'd stop to admire the view first.”

His face starts burning so fast, it's even more alarming, and he fucking knows Rick is talking about the scenery and not—what even. “Just a lake, man,” he mutters, thanking everyone who may listen for the cold water and his inability to—do something drastic. With his lower body parts.

“Yeah, just a lake.” Rick puts the map to the side and starts to unbutton his shirt. 

Daryl waits for the perfect moment, weighing his options like he would before an attack, and as soon as Rick drops his pants and is surely only a few seconds away from stepping into the water, Daryl stalks out, dripping and freezing and bustling to his backpack.

Something growls. Daryl whips around in a half-crouch, hair wetly slapping against his cheek.

The goddamn walker ain't even walking, it's pulling itself on by its arms. 

Behind him, Rick snorts, and Daryl is on fire everywhere, bending to grab his crossbow and sending the dead prick to hell.

It goes down - more down - with a sound like a hiss, a bit like a kettle, really, and Daryl nods at it, pulling his lip between his teeth. Ain't enough. He gnaws on his hangnail, just in case, all of his senses focused on Rick sloshing around in the water. God. Goddammit.

“You good?” Rick calls and it sounds like he's grinning, the fucker.

Daryl stands, gnawing his own arm off while the strap of the crossbow digs into his skin. His cold skin. It's wet too, and he's presenting his ass to his friend. Including the scars. “'m good.” 

There's a beat of silence.

“I'm gonna go under,” Rick says, slow like he wants him to know. Be aware of the fact.

Daryl turns his head enough to see him disappearing beneath the surface of the water.

He ain't running, but it's a close call. By the time Rick comes up sputtering water, he reached his backpack, and when Rick goes under and comes up for the second time, he managed to pull his jeans - fresh, the important factor - over his hips and is already closing them. 

It stays awkward, though that's probably just him. The shirt from the day before still smells reasonable clean, so he pulls it over his head and walks down to the water to wash his dirty clothes, focusing on the wet fabric and not on Rick cleaning himself. Or on the uncomfortable feeling of jeans pulling at wet skin while he ain't even wearing underwear. Which he should've packed, but didn't.

God.

When Rick comes out, he nods in passing and proceeds to stand with his back straight, unashamed and lean. Thin, that's what he is. He could use a few more meals—Rick turns around, hands on his hips. “Good thinking,” he says, pointing his chin at the pile of clothes Daryl forgot he's been pushing underwater. 

Daryl grunts, focusing on Rick's shoulder.

“Looks better, doesn't it?” 

His brain is empty. He doesn't want to, but he follows Rick's line of sight like the pervert he is, and when he sees what it's about, he sighs out a breath of relief. Then he frowns. “Did you take it off just now?” he asks, frowning some more at the wound on Rick's side, open and unprotected, probably a magnet for all kinds of nasty things, but still much better to focus on instead of—the rest of what Rick holds in his face. Literally.

A muscle in his abdomen jumps, moving the hair there. 

Daryl looks away, heartbeat loud in his ears despite having seen dozens of naked men in his time. Maybe more. Hell, Merle was born without any decency, he got his fair share of seeing that cock flap around from the day he was born. This is Rick, though. He ain't his brother and it ain't—right.

When he arrives back at in the real world, Rick wandered off to fight with his jeans the same way he did, if a bit more furiously since he insists on wearing the tight ones. He seemed to have enough foresight to bring fresh underwear though, and Daryl sighs in dismay, wringing out his clothes when Rick calls him over to redress the wound. 

The wet earth squelches between his toes, and when he's far enough from the bank to step into the clearing, the sun beats down from overhead. It's nice somehow, like he imagined a vacation would be, back in the day. If one ignores the body rotting between the trees.

Shaking out his wet clothes, he hangs them over a branch and aims for his backpack, shrugging into one of his own shirts. Something not as tight and without sleeves. It's somewhat reassuring, as ridiculous as that is, but he feels—dressed. Then he turns, blinking at Rick lounging against a stone, legs stretched out in front of him and jeans open. 

He didn't use to be like that. Did he.

Something brings out a shiver, raising goosebumps despite the warmth. Daryl shakes his head to make it go away and crouches next to the man, fingers on the zipper of Rick's backpack. “Does it still hurt?”

Rick shrugs with one shoulder, eyes closed against the bright light. He looks calm. And sane. Comfortable.

Daryl frowns without an actual reason for it, carefully poking around the edges of the wound to test its tenderness, feeling for warmth—no, for heat. From an infection. Which may linger there. Shame rises in him, joining the lump in his throat while Rick shakes his head, forever unaware of his deprived thoughts.

“Not anymore,” he says so at length, Daryl has to blink for a moment to catch up.

“That's good.” He nods, staring at his fingers pressing down on the soft skin, pale everywhere except for the wound. There's hair everywhere too, but it's probably not as soft. “Does look better, yeah,” he says, cringing, and gets to work. 

It's easier to take care of the wound with actual bandages at hand. Rick didn't get something against infections, but he's more or less sure it'll be fine from now on. Just needs a bit more time. 

“You seen any good spots, earlier?” he asks to fill the silence, hands slowing down when he unfolds the gauze and presses the edges of a few plasters against the skin until they stick. 

Rick sucks in a breath, stomach fleeing away from his fingers before he exhales again. “A few,” he says slowly. “Gotta wash my clothes though, we might as well stay here for a while. It's still early.”

“All right.” Daryl sits back, clamping his mouth shut in case he says something fundamentally stupid like suggesting to wash the man's clothes for him. There's gotta be a line, grieving friend or not.

Rick squints up against the sun, then he turns to him, head cocked and face weirdly expressionless. Or friendly. Friendly without meaning anything. “You're looking like you again.”

“What?” 

“It looks better,” Rick says, reaching out for his arm and dropping it again before he makes contact. “Makes you look like you instead of just you in someone else's clothes.”

Daryl grunts, self-consciously flexing his arm. “You're gonna put on some clothes too or are you gonna join the naked brigade?”

Rick grins. “That's still under debate.”

Daryl sits back, half-watching his friend crouching by the water to wash his clothes and half-pretending to enjoy the sun. In the end, they stay until they're dry, wiggling their toes in the sun and sharing a pack of extremely questionable crackers, and it's one of the best days he can remember since—since.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, last season Daryl said like three words altogether, so this fic made sense. Now it's officially OOC :D

When the stench of the walker decomposing in the sun becomes too intense, they pack their clothes, put on their shoes, and grab their weapons.

“Where to?”

Head bowed over the map, Rick takes a step to the side until they stand shoulder against shoulder, both able to look down at it—if he wasn't too distracted with the warmth Rick radiates. It's pretty intense, and if he hadn't _just_ taken a look at the wound, he'd think Rick might be running a fever. Their arms sick together, now that he's ain't wearing sleeves anymore.

A detail Rick noticed. Which is weird, ain't it.

“You listening?”

“Nah.” Daryl bumps against his shoulder, careful to not set off the dynamite and blow them up. “Just followin' anyway.”

“We talked about that,” Rick says and folds the map. “You gotta stop relying on me.”

Daryl frowns, suddenly cold despite the sun. “Ain't relyin' on you.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” Rick says, sighing. “You gotta stop trusting me like that. After what I did.”

“What did you do?”

Rick stares, face set. “What I _said_ I'd do.”

Daryl stares back, heart hammering. “What did you say you'd do?”

“God, Daryl.” Rick shakes his head, turning and marching off so quickly, Daryl barely manages to catch up to him. “I can't have you trust me like that. Not anymore. You've seen what happens and-” He huffs, picking up speed. “I can't have it happen again.”

Keeping his eyes on the leaves and earth and moss, Daryl rounds a bush, quiet even in his own mind. “That why we're out here?”

“No,” Rick says, sharp before he reigns himself in again. “That's not why we're out here. Right now, I'm telling you to stop-”

“Ain't tellin' me shit,” Daryl gripes, face warm and chest tight enough that he feels like lowering his voice. “You keep talkin' shit an' expect me to make sense of it. Well, I ain't makin' sense of it.You want me to get it, you gotta say what you mean.”

Rick stops and turns to face him. “You saw what happened,” he says, arms hanging at his sides even though his stance is wide. He looks small and big at the same time, and Daryl wants to reach out to grip his skinny frame and shake sense into him until he's back to the way he used to be; bloody and dangerous and fierce and wild.

“Wasn't your fault,” he mutters instead.

“The deal-”

“No.” He lifts his chin, trying to stare Rick into submission like he wanted him to do with Ezekiel. A taste of his own damn medicine right here and now. Rick opens his mouth, and Daryl glares. “ _No_.”

Rick huffs, and then he turns and starts walking. After a few steps, he grips the straps of his backpack, knuckles white when he stops again. “When they took you-”

“Goddammit, Rick.” Daryl licks his lips and then again right after. “I don't wanna talk about it and I don't wanna hear you say nothin'. Wasn't your fault. Ain't never your fault, man. I know what you were tryin' to _do_. Stop beatin' yourself up about it.”

They stand in silence, Daryl staring at the back of Rick's head and Rick standing like he's rooted to the spot and became one with the earth or some shit. Like he's grown roots, planning to stay in this spot forever, and _hell_ yeah, he's gonna wait him out. This is the one topic he ain't gonna back down from even if they stand here until it's night and the woods will be crawling with walkers—

A walker comes staggering through the trees, ugly as fuck.

Daryl glares at it, shooting an arrow in its head before it can do more than prepare for a snarl.

“The first few days, I didn't know whether they killed you.”

The arrow is stuck in the eye of the walker, leaking blood, and Daryl finds he can't move.

“I didn't find out for sure until Negan- Until he brought you home.”

“Rick.”

Rick moves, bending to retrieve the arrow and wiping it on a tree. Then he hands it over, looking past him. “Don't tell me to stop beating myself up about it.”

They walk on.

Something heavy settles in his chest, something that feels too much like—like dread maybe, but warmer. A bit hot and definitely uncomfortable, surging through him not in a flash but in a wave, gentle and slow, and he already knows he ain't much of a fan of it, but it settles all the same, putting down roots like it means to stay.

Daryl keeps his eyes on the ground, sometimes on Rick's back, and follows. He meant it, what he said. He's gonna follow wherever. Doesn't mean he wouldn't like to _know_ , but Rick offers no words on his own. Nothing at all, not even a huff or scoff or sigh or goddamn yawn.

In the end, Rick stops with his back to him and taps the map against his own shoulder like he thinks he's a dog just waiting to hurry to its master's heels.

“What, we're lost now?” he gripes, yanking the map from Rick's fingers. “Good load of nothin' all this walkin' did us then.”

Rick glances about, face alert like he suspects a herd coming their way. “We ain't lost,” he mutters. “Take a look. If I'm right, we should be about here-” His finger circles an area much too big for Daryl's liking, and then he draws a straight line. “We got through there and a few miles out, there's that road. See? That's where we're heading.”

Memorizing the outline, Daryl tries to get a feeling for the place they're in, letting his age-old instincts take over in case— “Why you tellin' me?” He glances up and digs his teeth into his lip. For good measure. “Rick, why you tellin' me now?”

“In case I don't make it or we lose the map.”

They stare at each other until Daryl can't take it anymore and slaps the map against Rick's chest. He nods and shoulders past him, mostly to get going because these stops for heartfelt talks are getting old, but also to hide his face in case it's showing anything of that dreadful goo swimming around in his head. Or maybe it's in his heart, who the hell knows.

“You're welcome,” Rick says.

Eye twitching, Daryl swings around, ready to come to fucking blows with him because. _Because_ , but then there's finally something to do, walker-wise. The fight ain't good, but it's something.

There are eight, and then there are none. One of his arrows splinters for good, there's rotten blood in his barely dried hair, and Rick looks like he fell face first against a tree. Which may have happened.

His mood is sour and they walk on in silence, and goo be damned, he wouldn't want to listen to Rick even if he had the best intentions ever.

The sun starts to set when they finally reach the road, and then it turns out blowing it up won't do anything good without lining the street with something else to block, and by the time they finish piling up branches, twigs, loose tree stumps and whatever else they can find, it's almost dark.

There's a glint in Rick's eyes.

“We doin' this?”

When Rick grins, his teeth flash through the darkness, reflecting on who knows what. Daryl's heart beats steady and sure, head free of thoughts for once. “It's dark,” Rick says, taking a step towards him.

“Yeah.”

There's a pause. “Traps in case they can still use the road?”

“Hell yeah.”

They dig small holes and ram branches in the softer earth beside the road, burying them so only the pointy ends look out, sharp enough tires will either earn a few holes or burst entirely. It's gonna slow down their vehicles in any case, and they can't ask for more.

When they finish both sides of the road, the sun disappeared entirely and his hands are sore, splinters firmly lodged in his palms and sweat running down his back, joining the dirt, joining the dried walker blood. Freeing.

“Ready?”

Daryl stares at what he can see of the man, unconsciously taking a step forward and lingering until Rick bends down to light the fuse.

They're off in a sprint, rushing past the trees. Daryl huffs out a righteous breath, darting to the left to get swallowed by the trees in case of roaming walkers. Behind him, Rick pants, breathing down his neck and smelling like fresh sweat.

“You good?” Daryl rushes out, unnecessary, keeping his voice low just in case, and slowing down to a walk when Rick doesn't answer. “Rick?”

Rick pants against him, catching him off guard, and then fingers close around his arm and slide down until Rick grips him by the elbow. “I can't see a thing,” he says, sounding amused, for whatever reason. “Sure hope you know the way.”

Nodding, Daryl stares at the dark trees and strains his ears until he remembers Rick can't actually see his nod. “Yeah,” he lies, “Just hold on.” He starts walking, and Rick tightens his grip, squeezing and then settling comfortably.

Every once in a while, Rick jerks at him, pulling him back when he stumbles or gets caught on something, breath rushing past his ear. It's weirdly intimate, and Daryl wishes them back to the cabin, but only for a moment. If he's honest, he wouldn't be too sorry if the walk stretched on for a while longer. This is good. This is—yeah.

He licks his lips, shaking his hair out of his eyes even though he can barely make out a thing anyway.

After a while, the distant snarl of a walker shuffling through the woods without any coordination brings him to a sudden halt. Rick bumps against his back, and Daryl lifts his crossbow, pressing back against Rick's chest to let him know about the danger.

It's impossible to tell where the sound is coming from, and he's half-tempted to tell Rick to hold his breath so he can listen more closely, but then Rick shifts closer and presses his thumb against the crook of his elbow, panting fast, and Daryl blinks through the almost-black, mind empty when the only reason he can come up with is Rick being—afraid. Unsure, he lowers the crossbow and reaches around to squeeze Rick's hand.

Rick starts walking, colliding with his back like he thought it was a signal instead of reassurance. Or whatever. “Think it turned the other way,” he whispers.

Daryl clears his throat and listens. The snapping of twigs and the telltale growl-snarl thing these undead fuckers have going for them gets quieter with every beat. “Smelled somethin' tastier than us,” he says, pulling a face right after. He turns his head, and Rick is so close, his hair brushes over the man's face. “Ready?”

Rick sort of shoves him without letting go, chest pressing against his arm. “Keep going. I'm following.”

 _Really_.

“You're full of shit, you know that, right?” Daryl mutters and starts walking without waiting for an answer, acutely aware of the places they stick together, sweaty in the humid heat. He stomps down on the goosebumps trying to rise—everywhere, really - ain't the fucking place and time for it - and leads them, trying to refocus his attention on the splinters in his palms and the image of the map in his head.

How the hell is he supposed to know if they're off track. There ain't a way, simple as that. He can _track_ , doesn't mean he's some kind of predator with night sight. They didn't walk this way, there ain't no trail to follow because they made the detour to the lake first.

If this is real.

“Think there's another,” Rick whispers.

Swaying them with his abrupt stopping, Daryl strains his ears, pulling Rick's hand with him when he raises his crossbow, ready to shoot anything and anyone. Maybe even dinner, if they're lucky.

He can't hear a thing. He listens a bit more, closing his eyes and holding his breath. There ain't nothing, not even a damn bird. Everything's either sleeping or dead.

“Might've misheard,” Rick whispers, voice so deep that for a moment, Daryl thinks he can feel the vibrations against his own skin.

“Or the growlin' was my stomach.”

Rick snorts like an idiot and digs his nails into his skin, just for a moment. “Keep walking, all right.”

“Ain't the one stoppin' us.” The muscles in his back pull tight, nervous without being able to put his finger on the reason. Probably because there ain't one. He'd hear a walker, he'd hear the Saviors or people in general. Ain't nothing more scary or dangerous than those options out here, and he's been in his fair share of dark woods, both before and after the world went to shit. Still, his nerves are frayed and he keeps licking his lips without meaning to, itching to shake off Rick's hand to get a clear head, and then he jerks back when Rick's voice comes again.

“How long you think it's gonna take us?”

He ain't got a clue.

“I think I'd die out here.” Rick huffs out a laugh, rubbing his thumb in a neat circle. It's rough and the nail catches on his skin. “If it weren't for you.”

He's acutely overwhelmed with the possibility of Rick not talking about their current moonlight stroll but being out here in general. The cabin. Getting away—god, the fucking dynamite. “You wouldn't. You'd climb up a tree or somethin' and you'd wait for light and then you'd find your way home. Back, I mean.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rick admits, voice soft. He inhales like he wants to say something else, but then he breathes out and stays silent, so Daryl steers them on, desperately searching for something to say to lighten the mood again. The thumb doesn't stop rubbing against him. It's a miracle Rick got that much coordination left, one would think he'd solely focus on not stumbling. Or breathing against him. Or being so close they could do it like he'd done with Beth—no.

Through the trees, surely a sign from the Lord hearing his very insistent prayers, he sees the dim and still far away light of a fire.

“Almost there,” he mumbles, clearing his throat when it doesn't come out as chipper as planned.

Rick says nothing. He keeps walking behind him, bumping into him every few steps, thumb rubbing until they're almost at the cabin and Tara's stupid laugh echoes loud and clear through the trees. Then the sounds of two guns getting ready to fire.

“Just us,” he calls and at once, there's some sort of commotion and someone tramples forward. Tara talks, Rick steps back from him, the fire burns too bright—

“Yeah, everything's good,” Rick says, calm and rough and bending down to catch his gaze. He nods towards the cabin, and Daryl feels lightheaded, taking a step back. Rick turns to Tara. “We took some of the dynamite-”

He ain't staying to listen to the tale, rushing past Rosita's questioning eyebrows with a nod and only just managing to not slam the door behind him when he's finally inside and able to release the breath he's been holding for reasons he has no interest in exploring. For a few seconds, he stands in the middle of the room, everything clear and bright with his eyes still adjusted to the dark of the woods. Outside, Rick tells the story of their success and showing it them on the map, judging from the crinkle of paper being unfolded.

When his heart calms down enough that he feels like a sane person again, Daryl places his crossbow next to the door, drops his backpack, and plops down on his blanket without any grace. There's something wrong with him. Something bad. This ain't even civilization, this is a goddamn hut in the middle of the woods. It shouldn't be too much. It _shouldn't._

“I can still see it though,” Tara says outside, sounding light like the weight of her loss isn't weighing her down. Must be a lie. Or she's good at pretending. “You know, when one looks closely enough? Rosita, you see it too? I'm sure there's that one spot on his neck - I can actually see skin there.”

“Shut up,” Rick says. He has a dark voice, and he can't remember his voice having been this dark. There's a certain gruff to it nowadays, doing—stuff.

“Can't say that I see it, but I can definitely smell it.”

Daryl pulls off his boots, tuning out the idle chatter and decidedly not wondering why he isn't sitting outside with them even though his stomach is grumbling and there's gotta be some food left. He lies down on his blanket, and then he sits up again and unbuttons his shirt, throwing it to the side and drawing the blanket over him instead. Caring about that wasn't his priority, ever, but that doesn't mean it's nice to hear people refer to his smell. Honestly, that woman.

Though he does feel cleaner without the bloody shirt.

Daryl sighs, closing his eyes and half-listening to Rosita telling Rick how they spotted a few Saviors at the old crossing. Whatever they did there in the first place. Rick ain't saying much to it, but he wouldn't know what to say either. There are two options: either the Saviors wanted to come and they stalled their plans by blowing the swamp to hell, or the Saviors wanted to scout ahead and now their surprise ain't a surprise anymore.

If everything happened like he thinks it did. Can't be sure of that.

You can't prove what ain't there, only the other way around.

Rick's there, next to him. He hasn't heard him come in, and that's either a strong sign of him losing all the abilities he has left or this ain't real after all.

“The Saviors-”

“I know,” Daryl mutters and pulls the blanket further up, suddenly cold. Rick nods, close enough he can see the movement out of the corners of his eyes. Good thing too; he ain't feeling like looking over.

“If you wanna go back and help the others, I won't stop you.”

Daryl holds his breath, thoughts running in eight directions at once to come up with an answer that ain't just 'no' without any reasoning.

Rick lies down, not even propping up his head but lying flat on his side, breathing against him. Again. “You don't need to stay here,” he says, quiet. Hopefully quiet enough Tara and Rosita can't hear them, in case he's gonna lose it. Rick breathes out a small huff, tickling against his ear. “I know you're not sleeping.”

“No shit,” Daryl rasps. He lifts his arm to get his hair out of his face and then he feels like it's a good idea to let it stay there, pressed against his forehead.

“I decided, by the way.”

Daryl blinks upwards, waiting for Rick to go on. He doesn't, and Daryl drops his arm to glance over.

Rick looks right back him, and while it's too dark to make sense of the look on his face, he radiates calm and some sort of warm stillness that's—nice.

“Dunno what that means,” Daryl says, waiting and fiddling with a splinter.

Rick stays silent, breathing deep without moving, and eventually, he closes his eyes. Daryl stares, lump in his throat when he thinks he knows the answer, and another answer, too. They still got some dynamite left, they didn't take all of it. There's still enough back in the woods to blow up this shithole of a cabin. Rick knows where it is, of course he does, why wouldn't he. Ain't a secret, and now Rick has decided.

And second: no way in hell his brain could come up with this shit on its own. This is Rick's own particular brand of crazy, his imagination ain't that great, and it certainly wouldn't come up with blowing things up over and over and over again when _he_ forgot about it days ago.

Third: Rick wouldn't tell him if he was gonna do it for real.

“All right,” he whispers. Then he turns on his side, unsure and jittery about showing Rick the scars even though he saw them before and is currently unable to see them, in the dark. Still, with him being so near - when the blanket moves, Rick could see. If he chose to.

“Night,” Rick says. It puffs against his back, right over the scars.

Daryl is out like a light.

 

In the morning, he wakes. Outside, Tara chatters and Rick yawns in that specific way he does. Decision made; not blown to hell.

 


	11. Chapter 11

There's blood in his hair.

Trying to get rid of the worst, he combs through it with both hands, pulling a face when the damn splinters poke him. His fingers are too thick, he can't get a hold of them and - who would've thought - no one packed tweezers. Also, Rick is watching him. He hasn't looked away for a few minutes, and Daryl tries to ignore it, he does, but he can only spend so much time failing to comb through his hair and eating the same stew until he's forced to say something.

Tara and Rosita ain't much help either, they're doing who knows what over at a tree. Looks like they're carving or some shit, leaving their initials like some lovesick fools.

Shaking his head, Daryl lets his hair be his hair and turns in his seat, glaring at Rick and glaring some more when Rick doesn't even pretend to look caught or embarrassed. “The hell you want?”

“You're still here,” Rick says, squinting. “I've been trying to decide why that puzzles me. Because it shouldn't.”

“Can't say that you don't make me _wanna_ go pack my things and leave.”

Rick grins. “But you wouldn't,” he says, absentmindedly scratching at the bandage. “You never did. Leave, I mean. Except that one time with Merle, and you came back right after.”

Daryl clears his throat. “Why we're talkin' about that?”

“Because it occurred to me that you never left. You're always there, somewhere around, and I guess... Well, I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Cause that ain't somethin' to think about,” Daryl says, voice rough and face warm. The sun ain't even fully up yet and now this. Why's he even friends with that man, honestly.

“Yeah, but what I mean is - I never thought something of it. I took it for granted like the option of you leaving for good never existed in the first place.” Rick looks over and away again, face weird. “That ain't right and I wanted to apologize for it.”

Daryl makes himself huff because he doesn't know what else to do, and then another idea hits him. As a means to level the playing field. “I wasn't always there. You told me to stay back in the Kingdom.” That should do it.

“God.” With a sigh, Rick turns back to him. His hand is still on his stomach, but it doesn't look like he's scratching, more like he's holding on. To himself. “Back then, I thought it was a good idea. It _was_ a good idea, they came back to Alexandria to look for you.” Rick shakes his head, bending down over his legs to keep eye contact. “I am sorry, Daryl.”

“'s fine. Did make it back to Hilltop, didn't I? Ain't a big deal.”

“Daryl, hey-” Rick's boots appear in his line of sight, and then the man crouches next to his chair, fingers curling around the wood. “That's the problem, don't you see? You made it to Hilltop and they told me you hid, and then you made it all the way to Alexandria, too. Don't you get it?”

Daryl scoots until he sits on the edge of the seat, putting as much space between them as he's able to, and then he swallows, glancing over to see the actual proof of the man talking in such a soft voice. “I don't,” he admits. “Ain't important, man. I made it.”

“You always do,” Rick says. “I shouldn't have made you stay back, you would've made it with us, too. There wasn't a reason to think you wouldn't, and I'm sorry. You hear me? I won't do it again. I'll ask the next time.”

Daryl nods and clenches his hands around the splinters, digging them into his skin. It's grounding, clearing his head. “That's good. We'll do it like that, yeah.” Rick's hand comes up to squeeze his, and something breaks loose in his chest. Daryl pulls back and the movement won't _stop_ , suddenly he's standing and stepping away from the chair and his hands won't unclench and Rick still crouches, frowning with his whole face.

“Guys!”

Jesus comes jogging into the clearing. From the other side of it, Tara and Rosita call out and sprint over.

“What happened?” Rick walks up to him, fingers on his belt like he's ready to draw and shoot on sight.

Tara skids to a halt next to him. “What's going on?”

“Something happened at Hilltop- or not at Hilltop, but with one of the groups there, you know, one of those who went out to lay traps like you guys do?” Jesus takes a shaky breath. “Turns out they came across Negan.”

That hangs between them for a moment.

“And?” Rosita demands.

“One made it back,” Jesus says softly, then he clears his throat. “He didn't make it, but he managed to come home to tell us. The road's still intact, they blew up one of the Savior's trucks but that's it. They know where the group came from, so...”

“He's on his way to Hilltop now?” Rick jerks forward. “How long did it take you to-”

“We have to go,” Tara says, “We have to help them.”

“They can't fight for shit.” Rosita stalks past and rushes inside the cabin.

“That's why I came. You're the closest, it takes twice as long to reach Alexandria and-”

“No.”

Jesus freezes, and Daryl would freeze along, but he ain't moving anyway. Tara doesn't seem to hear them, she follows Rosita inside and they're talking fast.

“No?” Jesus asks, drawing the word out.

“We're not prepared.” Rick looks at the ground, and Daryl takes a step back from both of them. “An uncoordinated attack like that is a suicide mission. We can't risk it.”

“We can't risk it?” Tara marches out, wildly pointing at Rick's face. “They already risked their lives! Some of them gave their lives for it and he's coming whether we're ready or not!”

“We are not,” Rick presses out.

Rosita loads her gun and bumps against his shoulder with the movement. Daryl inches back. “When are we prepared? When you sat some more out here in the woods? Think a vacation is doing shit for the war, Rick?”

“Maggie's there! And Enid. We gotta help them.” Tara stares around, face incredulous. “Come on?”

There's a beat of silence, and Daryl takes another step back. This ain't happening, it just ain't.

Rick unholsters the Python and looks down at it, licking his lips. “Take this,” he says, holding it out in the circle between them.

“I can't believe you.” Tara snatches the gun, shaking her head and turning to Rosita. “Come on.”

Rosita stays rooted to the ground, staring at Rick even when Tara pulls at her arm. “You're not coming,” she says like she's been deaf for the last minute. “You're gonna stay here and what? Let them take their chances? Let them die for a war you started.”

The urge is too strong and he's almost by the door, if he's quick he could—Jesus is right next to him, frowning. His breath his coming so fast he thinks he's gonna pass out any second, so he reaches for his gun and holds it out with shaking hands.

“Come _on!_ ” Tara yells, pulling at Rosita until she stumbles.

“I ain't going if he stays here!” Rosita yells back, rushing forward to push at Rick's chest. “This is our chance, how can you stay here?”

“It's not a chance,” Rick hisses, “It's a suicide mission, one we're not prepared for. The hell you think four people can do? That's delusional.”

“Daryl.” He snaps his eyes up, and Jesus slowly reaches over to take the gun out of his hand. “I'll take this. I'll bring it back, after,” he says, quiet while Rosita yells at Rick and Tara yells at Rosita and Rick snaps at both of them.

“They killed Abe! They killed Glenn and Spencer and-” Rosita stumbles back when Tara pulls at her arm. Her voice is sharp, and Daryl knows what's coming next. “They killed Michonne.”

Something digs into his shoulder. He shakes it off, pushing forward to shove at Rosita and someone snarls, what the hell—

There are walkers. Jesus howls and stumbles back, and Daryl whips around to see his own elbow connecting with his face while Tara shoots a walker and Rosita shoves at his chest, yelling something he doesn't understand.

“Come _on_ ,” Tara pleads, “Let's go!”

Daryl twitches forward, panting and unable to move an inch when something holds him back from behind, and he's fighting it, twisting his body to get away.

“Daryl!”

It's Rick but maybe it's a walker. Maybe Rick is a walker, god. Goddammit.

Throat closing up, he rams his knife in the skull of one with long hair. Ain't Rick. Can't be sure with the rest, he can't be sure, fucking hell, he—

It's quiet and there ain't enough air, and when he does manage to squeeze some through his lungs, it stinks like rot. Dead, everywhere around him and nothing's moving even though there's still a weight against his back, against his shoulders, almost painful but not biting, it's gotta be Rick and no walker, no walker-Rick—

“Daryl, hey.”

No.

Daryl shakes himself loose and steels his nerves, glancing back to confirm it's Rick. It is. His breath is coming fast and there's blood on his shirt, but he is whole.

At the sight of it, something in his head snaps for good. No need to worry anymore. Daryl nods and nods some more, and then he can't stop and walks backward until he turns and marches through the trees until he can't smell dead anymore and can't hear Rick's footsteps behind him anymore, and then it's fine, it's gonna be fine. It's gotta be fine.

He's at the lake, some time after.

There's blood everywhere on him, but he only killed one walker, the long-haired one. Or did he? The others must've left, during. Or after. He wouldn't have—no, he'd know. He knows his friends. He wouldn't mistake them.

Daryl wades into the water, clothes and all, and sits down so it comes up to his middle. The water ripples, turning a faint red around him, but he thinks it's not his own. Nothing hurts, at least. Only his head.

He hasn't left Rick since—since. His hands won't stop shaking and he puts them underwater so he doesn't have to see.

*

Vaguely, he remembers a time when he was friends with Michonne. A lifetime ago. Not enough to justify a panic attack or whatever it was. Not nearly enough, not after all this time. Of course he liked her, back when. At the prison, doing their thing. She was a friend and then, after, maybe not so much. Wasn't her fault, though. Maybe it wasn't even his.

Daryl walks back, slow and drying and mouth pulled to the side to not start crying or some shit like that. Here he is, thinking something ain't right with Rick and then he goes and does _that_. Whatever it was. Makes his stomach feel hollow, that's what it did. And his head empty and full, and if he'd taken his crossbow, he ain't even sure he could've fired it with his hands shaking like that. Looks like Merle back when he was in detox. Cold turkey once a month and a good load of nothing it did him in the end. Cut off his own hand, left for dead, and then there weren't any drugs left for him to take anyway. Shouldn't have bothered with detox before.

At the tree, he pauses, glancing up and down to see what Tara and Rosita were up to before everything went to hell. For a moment, he can't see anything, but when he takes a closer look and reaches up with his stupid thick fingers who are out of control, he sees the beginnings of something that indeed looks like a carving. He rubs his thumb over it, and one of the splinters digs in deeper, slipping under his skin. Daryl lets it, shakes his head, and turns to the cabin.

He doesn't get far.

Rick sits on the porch, face solemn and a deep line on his forehead. The walkers are gone. Just traces of blood and gore are left, some stench with it. Daryl blinks about, seeing them on the pile they already started.

“You did all that?” he asks quietly because. Because.

Rick stands and catches himself on the wooden post, face pale and sweaty. “It's almost evening,” he says, voice soft, and Daryl doesn't know what to do. He could apologize, maybe. “What's with your hand?”

“Nothin'.”

“Are you wet?” Rick steps closer, eying him from head to toe like he's seeing him for the first time. “You're bleeding. That ain't nothin', Daryl. Sit down.”

“'s fine,” he says. Then he sits anyway, too exhausted from nothing at all to put up a fight. Rick comes closer and bustles about, and then he actually grips his chair and pulls it around so he's facing the fire. Who would've thought there was that kind of strength in him, with his scrawny arms.

Rick crouches in front of him, craning his head to look up. In this position, his face is in the shadows and it's hard to tell what he's thinking. “Are those splinters? From the day before?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Rick inhales a little too long and breathes out with a rush. “One step at a time, right? I'm gonna get those out now.”

He still tries to process what the comment about steps is supposed to mean, then Rick cradles his hand - which bleeds without his knowledge and input - and turns it around, looking it over like he's seeing something interesting. “Just splinters,” Daryl says, low and tired. Exhausted. He's a bit cold too, and damp, and the dim light ain't making sense either. He sure as hell didn't sit in the lake all day.

Did he.

Rick's hand is rough on his, calloused from getting his hands dirty, using his gun, wielding his knife. Being their leader. He smells like them berries from the backside of the hut, and Daryl breathes in, feeling a splinter come out when Rick catches it with deft fingers.

His stomach growls and his throat is dry.

“Earlier,” Rick says in a quiet voice, catching another splinter and flicking it into the fire, “I didn't mean to decide for you. Just before I said I'd ask- Guess it takes some time to get used to it. Fucked up as that is.”

Daryl frowns down at his hand, flexing it on reflex. “You didn't decide for me.”

“Yeah, I did.” Rick looks up, smiling but with his lips curving down instead of up. “Because I thought I knew what's best for you.” He huffs. “Again.”

The last splinter burns to ash in the fire, and Rick puts his hand back on his thigh, placing it with a pat before he takes the other and starts all over again. The feeling of it wanders over his arm, strange and odd, right up to his shoulder. Maybe a bit inward, too. To the center.

He grunts, vague.

Rick fights with a splinter, bending over his hand to get a better look at it. “I was worried when you left like that.”

“I can take care of myself,” Daryl points out, “Ain't nothin' to worry about.”

Huffing out a breath that sounds a bit like a laugh, Rick glances up. “Always do. I guess that's something else I didn't know. Or took for granted.” He shrugs, picking the last piece of wood from his palm. “Just thought you should know.”

Daryl sits, trying to hold his breath, and then it's too much after all and something in his brain snaps again, making him yank back his hand and ball it into a fist. “You thought I should know you're worried? That's what you worry about.” He licks his lips, staring down at Rick's face. “Instead of worryin' about what the fuck came over me or how I didn't even- I- Rick, we should've gone with them. I should've gone with them and I didn't even think about that, all I thought about was gettin' away from nothin'-”

Rick's hand lands on his thigh, heavy like a stone. It's grounding, and his leg jerks without his input, making him clench his other fist, too. “You know what happened?” he growls, shaking his head when Rick opens his mouth. “I brought us here cause you need time. And space and, Rick. I'm-”

“You're allowed to grieve,” Rick whispers.

No. _No_. “That ain't- I thought you were a walker. Back then, for a moment I wasn't sure. I couldn't be sure.”

“Daryl. Daryl, listen to me,” Rick whispers urgently, “You are allowed to grieve. I didn't lay claim to the right to need time. You have to process-”

“I didn't _lose_ no one.” Daryl jerks up and away from the chair, leaving Rick to stumble and turning his back to him. “I didn't lose nobody, there ain't no reason for me to grieve. Not like for you.”

Rick's voice comes from right behind him, puffing against his neck like when he held onto him, back in the dark. “Not like me, no. This isn't a competition, Daryl. You're allowed your own-”

“But not like you!” He whips around, pointing a finger in the dark. When the implication of the statement sinks in, guilt rushes through him and settles between them, heavy and thick. The smoke of the fire burns in his eyes, suddenly, and Rick is right in front of him, hands raised like he's ready to block any hits coming his way. Like he actually believes he'd start pummeling him.

“Not like me because I'm the only one allowed to see things that aren't there? Or maybe hear things, too?” Rick steps closer, smelling of smoke and fire and death. “Or because I lost someone I love and it's more right to mourn someone you love like that than to mourn someone you _just_ love?”

“The hell you're talkin' about.”

“I loved her. I can say her name if you want me to.”

“The hell, Rick-”

“Michonne. I loved her and she died.”

There's nothing he has to say anymore. The amount of words he's allowed per day is used up, empty, and his head is empty too, as is his stomach and his heart and everything else. Damn hollow, all of it, and he ain't a friend to Rick. This ain't what friends do, forcing them to talk about topics that hurt them so badly they have to flee into the woods.

But that wasn't something _Rick_ did. He brought him here.

Daryl looks up, searching for clues in Rick's face and finding none. “Why did you come out here?” he whispers, clearing his throat and asking again. Then again. “Rick.”

“I know you're not grieving for her like I do.” Rick turns away, looking at the trees. “Nobody does. Why would they? But if you want to, you can grieve over her. Like I said, there ain't a thing giving me the only right to be sad.” He nods, and with tense shoulders, he walks off until he's right at the edge of the porch, still in sight and clearly wanting to be left alone.

The hollow in his stomach is so bad he's nearly sick with it, and the fire stopped warming him a while ago, so Daryl walks inside and closes the door behind him, eying his blanket. Then he lies down and curls around it. Ain't nobody there to see him do it. Maybe there ever won't be. Maybe Tara and Rosita are already gone. Maybe Negan took Jesus too, and he's in his cell now. Hell, maybe they all are. Maybe Rick is finally coming to the conclusion he's not worth the trouble—

God, if Carol were here, she'd kick his ass. With words, at least.

The door creaks open and Rick walks in, closing it behind him and lying down without preamble. Outside, the fire still burns, shining like a beacon for every bad intention and every dead beast roaming these woods. Means Rick doesn't plan to stay, or maybe it means he wants him to get up and take watch.

“If you're not sure,” Rick says, scooting right up to his back, “If you're not sure, you ask me. How's that?”

Rick breathes against him, and something inside of him is on fire, feeling like his heart. He swallows, staring through the window. “This real?”

“It is. It's real.” Rick places his hand on his back, right in the middle with barely any pressure, just enough to keep him breathing. And he does, all right, but it comes faster and faster, and then his throat constricts and he's sure he's about to burst at the seams.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he forces out, turning over and squashing Rick's hand under his back. He's so close he can see every detail on Rick's face, every line and scar and hair. There are barely any laugh lines left, it's all grief and sorrow and hunger now. “I'm so sorry,” he says again. “Wish you wouldn't have to- Wish it was better for you. That it didn't happen again and again.”

Rick curls forward, taking a hitching breath and curling his fingers where his hand sticks to his skin. Daryl scoots back, giving him room to—cry.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispers. Rick doesn't stop. “Wanna go back? Help the others? Rick.” God, he did this. He did this, he brought it up, the topic of hell. Being out here all on their own can't be good, he ain't healing at all—

Rick presses his fist against his forehead. It connects with a dull sound, and then again, again. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck.”

Daryl catches his hand, pressing it down on the hard ground between them. It twitches under his fingers, but just for a moment, then Rick lets himself be pinned down, shutting his mouth around something that could be a sob. “You decided,” Daryl says, nodding, licking his lips. “Remember that? Was for a reason, right? Just think about that.”

“They could be dead,” Rick says, “Like everyone. Like all of the rest.”

Daryl looks at him, resisting the urge to let go of his hand to clear the curls from Rick's face. “Could be.” No reason to coddle him, Rick knows how it goes. “You still decided. About not blowin' us up. About not goin' to help and about—about healin' first. Gotta stick to your plan.”

Rick breathes out a thick sound. “What, then everything's gonna be fine?”

“Maybe,” he says, flexing his fingers when Rick withdraws his. “Can't be worse than now,” he adds and rolls onto his back, looking at the ceiling. His stomach rumbles.

“Don't go.”

Throwing off the blanket, Daryl moves to sit, raking his fingers through his hair and noticing for the first time that they stopped shaking. “I'm not goin',” he says belatedly, frowning when the meaning catches up to him. “Thought we established that as a fact.” He huffs, struggling to his feet.

Rick's voice is so low he almost misses it when it comes the next time, “Take watch from inside?”

If that's all it takes. “Yeah. Yeah, all right.” Daryl goes outside and puts out the fire, leaving the door open, just in case. He gets his crossbow, Rick's knife, and both their backpacks, and closes the door behind himself.

By the time he rummages for something to eat, Rick turned his back to him. He's only wearing his undershirt, and the blanket is drawn up around his chest, barely visible in the dark if it weren't for the stark contrast. Grey against almost white, especially in the pale light of the moon. It's eerie and somehow mesmerizing, and Daryl leans against the wall, keeping both Rick and the window in his line of sight, and doesn't get up again until the birds wake up and the moon disappears to make room for the sun.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I failed to finish this before NaNo, obviously, but I promise I'll keep the updates coming.

In the morning, for reasons he doesn't understand in the slightest, he overlooks Rick being awake for the longest time. He blinks at his fingers, sliding them over his palms to marvel at the smoothness that comes with the lack of splinters, minding his own damn business, and the next moment, the hair on his neck stand up and he whips his head around.

Rick lies on his side, head pillowed on his arm, eyes open and clear like he's been awake for a while. Without making a sound or relieving him of watch.

It's weird enough the Good Morning gets stuck in his throat.

With a sigh, Daryl heaves himself up from the floor and then he's at the door already, hearing Rick standing up behind him too, and he doesn't say anything, either. Which is even weirder, so Daryl walks out and blinks at the sun, popping his back to get at least his body to wake up, if his thoughts won't. Or to squash the stupid hope of finding Tara and Rosita out on the porch, sitting and chatting or brooding or whatever. Of course they ain't sitting there, he would've heard them, but it floods through him in a sharp pang of regret anyway. Traitorous heart. Maybe it's heartburn, actually. Making him soft or something.

Rick steps up behind him, flooding his nose with his smell. The man ain't stinking, but he ain't smelling like roses either. Like sleep though, and warm. If warm is a smell.

A hand lands on his back, high between his shoulder blades, and traps his hair under it. Rick splays his fingers, pressing gently before he drops the hand again and wanders towards the trees. Daryl looks after him until Rick fumbles with his belt, and since he ain't planning to watch the man take a piss again, he turns away and rolls his shoulders against the tingle on his back where Rick did that shoulder-clap that wasn't one and wasn't a back-clap, either.

God, he's tired. He should get some real sleep tonight. He's gonna barricade the door and curl up in front of it.

But one of the dead fuckers could come in through the window, and then he'd be dead. Chewed upon before he could even open his eyes.

Daryl groans out a sigh, fishes for some water and leftover jerky, and shoves it into his mouth when Rick comes back, pace slow and face impassive. He stops a few feet away and puts his hands on his hips.

“We're almost out of food.”

Daryl grunts, hoping it sounds as acknowledging as he intended. “Wanna go back?” he asks, flinching when it comes out too rough. He clears his throat and Rick shakes his head.

“I thought you'd hunt us something.”

“I can.” Daryl shrugs, squinting up when a weird feeling rises in him. “What you're gonna do in the meantime?”

“If you tell me where you put my knife, I will go kill something.”

Daryl stares. “It's actually my knife,” he says instead of literally anything else.

Rick breathes out a laugh, looking at the earth between them. “Yeah, I stole it. You're gonna tell me where it is? I need to...”

“Kill somethin',” Daryl supplies. “I put it in your backpack yesterday.”

Rounding him, Rick goes inside and comes back with both his knife and the crossbow, handing it over and shoving the knife under his belt. “Thank you,” he says, sort of hovering.

“Okay.” Daryl frowns. “Meet back here later?”

“If that's okay with you.”

“You askin' for permission now? I'm not your keeper, you can do whatever the hell you want.”

They frown at each other.

He was always so very good at reading his friend, and now everything's turned to shit and his ability to sense Rick's moods right with it. Proving his point, Rick takes a step forward, nodding in that prolonged way he does when he's pretending to be fine with something.

“Just nod or something,” Rick says.

He takes in the harsh set of Rick's mouth, the line on his forehead. The beard, growing everywhere. Back to mountain man it is. “You're just gonna kill one of them walkers, right?”

“Probably more,” Rick says, shrugging with one shoulder. “But yeah, that's what I plan to do. I wanted to let you know.”

“I know now.”

“This is your cue to voice any concerns you might have,” Rick says, eyelids drooping low enough that he looks like he's got about ten brain cells and all of them are occupied with keeping him standing.

Daryl snorts, swinging the crossbow over his shoulder and closing the door to the cabin. “Ain't have no concerns, you'll do just fine.” There's a pause. “Later, then?”

“Yeah.” Rick nods and steps forward so fast, Daryl flinches back on instinct, then Rick reaches around to grip his neck, squeezing once before he lets go and pulls out the knife from under his belt.

Lost, he blinks after the man until Rick disappears between the trees and his brain reminds him he's standing around like an idiot, watching him go like he'll never fucking see him again.

Of course he will. Right after he caught some game, that is.

Mind foggy from the lack of sleep, Daryl gets going, halfheartedly trying to pick up a trail and only spotting the numerous footprints of the walkers from the day before, stinking up the place something fierce. He keeps walking nonetheless, without a goal and not ready to admit it.

It's quiet, no walker in sight like they're all herding past him, pushing on to wherever Rick is waiting to kill something. Whatever the hell that even means.

After a while, he stops pretending to follow a trail and changes course until the lake comes into view, gleaming and peaceful in the sunlight. Rick was right to look at it like he did back then. Only a couple of days ago, but that doesn't mean he couldn't use another wash, especially not when no one tells him to do it anymore.

With Tara and Rosita elsewhere.

Closing his eyes, Daryl turns his face towards the sun and listens to the wildlife around him, chirping and squirreling and rustling through the trees, bushes, leaves. Everything small enough to go unbothered by the dead just keeps on living, breeding, and dying. Nothing changed for them, and when humanity is gone for good, they wouldn't know the difference either.

His thoughts run muddy, sort of hot and coiling, for whatever damn reason. He walks up to the edge of the lake, setting down his crossbow and taking one last look around for any stray walkers or people, then he starts to undress. It's still weird that Rick didn't tell him he was awake though, this morning. Who knows how long Rick lay there, and what did he even do? Just looking at him trying not to fall asleep?

With a huff, Daryl drops his clothes and wades into the cold water. Goosebumps rise immediately, but the shock brings abrupt clarity to his thoughts, too. He lets himself cool down for a while, ducking under to get rid of the grease in his hair and combing through it until he can't be bothered anymore and feels clean enough, then he stumbles back out, self-conscious even though there ain't no one around to see him.

Dropping down on the same spot he dried off with Rick, that half-circle without overhanging treetops letting the sun though so he doesn't have to freeze his ass off in the shade, Daryl leans back against a stone and pulls his knees up, looking at the water. It shouldn't take longer than a few minutes to dry, and then he'll pick up an actual trail and hunt some food, bring it back home. To the cabin. Maybe Rick's back by then.

It won't be late, but not too early to get a fire going either. Skinning whatever he's gonna catch will take a while, too.

The day will go by in no time, and then Tara and Rosita will be back. And Jesus. Carol maybe, with Judith. And Rick, of course, but he's always there. Watching him and sleeping next to him and having stopped staring at trees and making ominous comments. He picked up the habit of weirdly touching his back instead, and he always smells of something he can't quite catch. Like something wooden.

Maybe because he's sleeping on the floor.

There's a fly on his knee and Daryl swats it away, rubbing the water-drops into his skin. A lot of scars there. Not that he ever minded; most of them are on his back and he can't see them anyhow. Except the ones on his arms, but hell, they all got them by now. One's on his stomach, ages-old. Fuckin' Merle.

A phantom itch rises up, and Daryl places his hand over it, refusing to look down to see if it's bleeding again - of course it ain't - but then it hurts for a second and he looks down anyway, lifting his hand to peek underneath.

It's just a scar. Faded, a bit thick, sitting amidst an ugly patch of hair, stomach wrinkled with him sitting bent like this. He cringes, unable to look away like something pulls him in, reminding him it's been ages since he looked at himself. It's been so long, his own body looks foreign to him by now. He didn't look in the cell. It was too dark and he didn't feel too hot in the first place, and now with the sun shining and the damn birds overhead, it's all too fucking clear to see. Scars and too much hair in some places, not enough in others. Thick fingers, clumsy, and goddamn cock rising like it has any business to rise anywhere.

Daryl clenches his teeth, and then he remembers he has a face and lifts his hand to feel for his beard. Not even that is proper, just a few hairs here and there in his damn age. Too fucking soft and not thick at all, not like Rick's. Or maybe Rick's _is_ soft. It's definitely thick. He hasn't as many scars either—god, Rick saw him like this. If he looked—yeah, he looked. There was a walker and to kill it, he shined his pale ass for all the world to see.

Daryl looks down again, twitching when his mind presents him with an image of him turning around instead of keeping his back to the man. Like Rick did, later. Showing him the wound, naked and unashamed and uncaring about him getting an eyeful.

For a second, he can't breathe, a shame sitting so deep he almost chokes on it, and then he's up in a flash and back in the water, wading in until it comes up to his chest. He's throbbing, and it's been so long, he can't even remember the last time.

He can, but he doesn't want to think about that.

After all this time, the pressure is too much, and at least now he doesn't have to see himself doing it. Daryl nods and gets to business, momentarily disappointed when the cold water did nothing to shrivel it up. He wraps his hand around himself and closes his eyes half-way, starting to pump, rougher the second Rick's fucking beard comes to his mind again, and then his face is on fire and he pumps harder, it almost hurts but it's good.

No, it ain't.

It's over in less than a minute, and he washes off and stalks out of the water before he's even soft. He frowns at his clothes, forcing them over his wet skin while trying to keep his mind free of thoughts.

He can't remember the last time it felt good instead of this. Not at the prison. At the farm, vague thoughts of 'what if' tumbling through his head when he was in his tent and everyone else was sleeping. Back before all the grief and insanity and everything that came after. It's possible he thought about that beard back then too, but that ain't right, right? Not letting go of such a stupid fantasy when- when—

A deer comes crashing towards him. It skids to a stop, and Daryl yanks up his crossbow and shoots an arrow in its neck. Then one in its head.

He doesn't lower his crossbow; that deer was fleeing from something, and that something could as well be not-quite-living, but nothing comes forth. No snarling or gargling or whatever these things let out, and after a minute, he lowers his crossbow again, frowning down at the deer.

Now how's he expected to get that back to the cabin in one piece.

*

Half an hour later, Daryl grunts through the woods, ruining his last shirt and his back on top of it, and there ain't no way he's gonna stop or he'll never be able to heave it back onto his shoulders, all right. Fucking things you do for dinner these days.

When he gets back to the cabin, Rick scurries closer, sort of fluttering around without actually helping. Daryl drops the deer with a final grunt and stretches his back, staying bend to the side, _grimacing_ , before he manages to get a look at Rick's face. At his clean face, without blood or gore or anything nasty on it.

“Didn't get to kill anythin'?” he asks, pressing his fist against his back.

Rick shakes his head, rounding him and waving his hands like an idiot before Daryl realizes it's because he's gonna touch—his shoulder. Rick holds him steady and digs his knuckles in all the right places until something pops back into place and Daryl lets out a groan. “Like that?”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes and clears his throat. “Thanks.”

It's quiet for a beat and the deer ain't that interesting, so he glances up, jerking back when Rick stares at him with a look so intense his stomach almost drops.

“I told her,” Rick says, and his stomach drops for real.

Forcing himself to not look away, Daryl sighs without meaning to. “Again? Thought we were over that.” Rick looks at him without blinking, staring like he plans to _will_ the meaning into his brain. “Gotta use your words. I can't read your mind.”

Rick scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and for a moment, he stands still. “You're my brother - I said that, remember?” Daryl nods, uneasy. “That wasn't true, not even back then.”

The hollowness doesn't come gradually. It's just there, from one second to the next. Without a goal, Daryl turns and walks back the way he came, and the pit comes with him, digging a hole beneath his ribs.

“I told her I'd live,” Rick says behind him, urgent. He's at his back and then at his shoulder, rounding him until they're face to face. Daryl stops, looking at the tree behind him. “I told her I'd live, that I could live on with her gone. You know why that is?”

“No, Rick, I don't know why that is.” A fucking awful thing to say to the woman one loves. Goddammit, why's he _telling_ him.

Rick bends, trying to catch his gaze when he keeps evading him. “You think it should be like that? Remember back at the prison? I was barely able to hold it together—scratch that, I completely lost it after Lori-”

“Rick,” he cuts in. The pit in him fills up again, but only a bit. The brother comment still ain't making sense.

“I tried,” Rick says, voice suddenly soft, “I tried so hard, and I know that makes me crazy too, but I tried to lose my mind even though I _told_ her I wouldn't. And I meant it.”

Daryl waits, heart in his throat. “Dunno what that means,” he says eventually, praying Rick will explain instead of letting him believe all of this is actually about him trying to go crazy because he should grieve over Michonne the same fucking way he did over Lori. But Rick won't explain, he already turns away with a blank face.

There can't be too much 'trying' going on, he's got the craziness down all on his own.

“I'm gonna come back later.”

“Rick.” Daryl catches him by the collar of his shirt and pulls, not enough to make him stumble. “You changed, that ain't a bad thing. Just means you've adapted. Cause you _had_ to.”

“I'm gonna come back later,” Rick says again. “Haven't killed anything yet.”

The fabric of the shirt drags over his fingertips until Rick is out of reach, slowly disappearing between the trees. This time, Daryl doesn't stay to watch him go. He turns to the cabin, set on getting at least one thing right today and if it's just skinning a damn deer.

 


	13. Chapter 13

The sun starts to set and he's up to his elbows in the deer, blood and skin everywhere and mood so sour he wouldn't be surprised if the meat tasted salty, and then there's movement at the edge of the clearing. Looking up with a weary sigh, Daryl reaches for his crossbow and freezes when Tara comes into view. Rosita follows behind, face pulled into her usual frown, but even from this distance, the lines on their faces are visible enough.

Daryl sits back on his ass, wiping his hands on the fur to get rid of the worst of the blood. “How bad?”

Rosita huffs, going straight past him to the cabin. Daryl turns his eyes on Tara, watching her sink down on the chair with a sigh.

“You can have your gun back,” she says, shrugging down at her knees. “We didn't need it anyway.”

“No fight?”

“No fight.” Tara pulls out his gun and puts it down beside her. Rick's gun comes after. “They didn't even come up to the gate. Just one truck. They bound them—I guess they were important for the community. I didn't know them, but...” She sighs, looking down at her hands. “They bound the three of them together, chains, you know, around their necks. Let all of them turn and then they set them free right in front of the gate and drove away without saying one word. God, I think that was the hardest part.”

Daryl makes a small sound, unwilling to disagree even though his heart hammers with guilt and shame and everything else. “Nobody else got hurt?”

She glances over and away again. “Like I said, they drove away again. We stayed in case they came back, but yeah. They didn't. Talk about anticlimactic.” She shakes her head.

They sit in silence.

It's probably one of those occasions where he should reach out to comfort her with a squeeze to some body part, but he's bloody all over and the angle is all wrong, and he doesn't know what to say either. He looks down at the deer. “Got us a deer,” he says dumbly. “Least we eat good tonight?”

Tara lifts her eyebrows, nodding and shaking her head at the same time. “Guess that's so. Listen, about yesterday-”

“Nah.”

Tara frowns. “You don't even know what I was going to say.”

Daryl looks away. “Sorry I didn't-”

“Yeah, all right.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, Maggie told me to tell you that you should come by if you want to help. Some of the Hilltop folks could use archery lessons.”

Something warms him, suddenly. Maybe it's pride or maybe it's worry. Who the hell knows. “I'll talk to Rick when he comes back, guess a day trip to Hilltop wouldn't do no harm.”

There's a beat of silence. “No- I mean yeah, obviously, but Maggie asked me to ask you. If you want to help.”

“What, you expect me to leave Rick here?”

Tara stares, blinking very slowly. “No,” she says, “I'm saying she asked for your help when _you_ feel like coming. You. As in Daryl.”

They frown at each other until Daryl looks away.

“Ain't makin' a lotta sense,” he says, shaking his hair out of his face. “Guess that's her hormones talking.”

“Whatever.” Tara makes to stand and plops down again when Rosita comes back outside, cap on her head and frown on her face. He sort of missed having her around.

“What were you doin' at the tree back then?” he asks, squinting up and lifting his eyebrows when Tara sputters.

“Nothing,” Rosita says, frown deepening.

Oh, all right, there's something and that something is something else entirely than pestering him about what Maggie told whom. “You carved somethin' in there? In case you forget your names.”

“We didn't carve our names in a tree, Daryl.”

Something tugs at his lips, and strangely enough, it feels like a smile. “Yeah? Then why you're blushin'?”

Tara snickers, bumping her shoulder against Rosita and almost sending her crashing into the post. Rosita glares, turning to him. “It's none of your business.”

“It was supposed to say _we are here_. You know, instead of 'xxx was here' like those graffiti always say?”

Rosita turns her glare on Tara, and Tara takes her hand, holding it until Rosita rolls her eyes and snatches it away. She doesn't leave though, she just turns away with a scoff. Tara beams and Daryl feels the corners of his mouth turn down, and then Rick comes crashing into the clearing, bloody from head to toe. He nods at them, bustling by to round the cabin.

They haven't stopped blinking after him when he comes back, aiming for his chair in a way that's quite alarming.

“Um,” Tara says.

There's something in Rick's hand. He squats down in front of him, holding out the arrows like an offering. Behind him, Tara shuffles away.

“You okay?” Daryl asks quietly, glancing at the arrows Rick made during—trying to lose his mind, then at his face, at his hands and arms. They're dark with blood. Too dark to be fresh and stinking to high heaven, but that doesn't mean there ain't no scratch somewhere underneath.

Rick thrusts the arrows upwards, and when Daryl fails to take them, he puts them on his splayed thighs, holding them steady so they won't roll off. His other hand comes up to scratch at his beard. “I'm gonna go to the lake.”

“Jesus,” Rosita says, and a moment later, the door to the cabin closes behind her.

Flexing his thighs, Daryl looks down at his friend, watching the hand in his beard peel off flakes of dried blood. “A bit longer and you're gonna look full-out Moses again, like back on the road,” he says because he's insane.

Rick grins, looking crazy. “Are you asking whether I'm gonna let you trim it down?”

“No way.” He blinks, and Rick grins again, still crazy.

“You telling me you like my beard, Daryl?”

“Ain't tellin' you shit,” Daryl mutters, and then he finally grabs the arrows.

Rick doesn't let go of them, he stays where he is. “That's just as fine. I wouldn't let you near my beard if you wouldn't let me near your hair in return,” he says, slow and very insane, and reaches up like he actually wants to touch his hair, and Daryl presses back against the chair, horror-scenarios about greasy strands rising in his mind. But they ain't greasy, he washed them a few hours ago.

Still.

“No way,” he says again. Somehow, it comes out soft, and his scalp prickles like his hair actually knows it's being talked about. The hell, even.

Rick holds himself steady on his knee, right next to the arrows. When he smiles, it looks a bit less insane than before. “I'll go wash now.”

“It's all walker blood, right?” Daryl waits for his nod. “You remember the way?”

Rick stands, looking at the angle of the sun. “Gotta hurry, but I should be back before it's dark. I definitely won't sleep in this, though.” He fiddles with his shirt, wry grin on his face, and then he catches his gaze and holds it. “I remember the way, but you look like you could use some washing yourself,” he adds slowly.

Heart hammering for reasons he ain't sure about yet, Daryl shakes his head. “'m not done here, won't do good to wash up before.”

Rick licks his lips. “You're gonna have dinner ready when I come back?”

“Guess.” There's a pause, and Rick won't leave. “Sure you know the way?”

“Yeah,” Rick breathes, hands on hips while he looks to the side. “Been there earlier.”

He stops breathing.

The damn deer. The deer and he did—but that was underwater, Rick couldn't have seen. But he strode out, Jesus Christ, he strode out of the water and—

Rick leaves, steps slow like he isn't sure he's actually going until he disappears between the trees in the exact right direction.

He wanted him to know.

Horrified, Daryl stares at the deer and the arrows and his bloody hands, feeling like fucking crying. He doesn't. It's a close call, but Tara wanders back from wherever she was, eyes big and darting around, and Daryl can't afford to even think about Rick seeing—so he just won't.

*

Rick comes back clean. They sit around the fire, and Daryl pretends he doesn't catch him looking. Or Tara. Or Rosita, for that matter. He focuses on the meat, getting a full belly and topping it off with a handful of berries, and pretty soon after, he excuses himself—he goes inside and closes the door and that's it.

Dead set on getting a good night's sleep, he peels out of his most offending clothes - his boots - and even though his jeans can soon start to wander around on their own, he certainly won't go butt naked with Tara and Rosita nearby. Or Rick. Dammit. Neither with Rick nearby. It would be too fucking weird, wouldn't it. Though, he's seen his ass all clear and fine, sun shining on it and all. And he's seen his—still not going there.

He takes the arrows and places them next to his crossbow, sliding his fingers over them to feel for the edges. They're smooth enough, flexible, sharp. Pointed. Good work Rick didn't have to do, but work he did anyway. And then he held onto them for days on end until he finally gave them with a look like—something he ain't sure of. The only thing lacking - except for a test-run to see if they'll splinter or hold together - is a nice colorful fletching on top. Maybe there's something back in Alexandria he can use.

Maybe Rick wants to do it himself. He could ask him, maybe.

Rick walks through the door, standing with his hands on his hips and looking down at him.

“Any ideas for the fletching?”

Rick squats beside him and looks the arrows over like he hasn't spent hours working on them. “Actual feathers won't do it?”

Daryl hums, running his thumb over the tip. “Nah, too soft. Plastic's better, especially nowadays. Feathers would soak up all kinds of shit. Blood and gore and walker-goo.”

“Sounds nasty.”

“Exactly.”

Rick bumps his knee against his thigh. “You look cleaner.”

“We've got some water left, if you wanna,” Daryl says, pausing to decide whether to be insulted about constantly - and only _now_ \- being reminded about his lacking hygiene “Can't say the same 'bout you. With your bloody clothes.”

“I didn't mean it like that.” Rick shakes his head, but he smiles. It's weird. “I'll keep a look out for some fletchings.” He licks his lips, looking to the side, even weirder. “Carol might have some. At least she could know where to get some. Lots of archers in the Kingdom.”

The fabric of Rick's jeans rubs against his own, a warm, rough, _weird_ point of contact. “Means a lot,” Daryl says, gruff. “To me. That you made them.”

“You're welcome.”

His thigh begins to cramp in the unusual position, so he sits down on his ass, looking at Rick looking at him. It's strangely comfortable. The light from the fire flickers through the windows and it's dark enough the stars start showing in the sky, and he feels clean and—at ease.

“You tired?” Rick asks softly.

“A bit,” Daryl admits.

Rick sits down at an angle to him, dragging the heels of his boots over the wood with a dull sound and stretching his legs out. “Earlier, when I said you're not my brother,” he says, “I didn't mean it like you're not important to me like a brother. It's a different important, you know what I mean? I don't want you to think I tried to downplay-”

“'s fine,” Daryl cuts in, pretending to know what Rick is talking about. “Don't matter.”

“Yeah, it does.” Rick sighs, rolling his head against the wall to look at him. “I never want you to think you're not welcome, but no matter what I say or do, you don't seem to get it. You gotta tell me where I went wrong.”

Daryl glances up and away again, raising his knees to put his arms over them. The position reminds him of what he did at the lake, and he drops them again. And clears his throat. “I ain't not feelin' not welcome,” he says. Rick bows forward to his catch his eyes. “Got nothin' to do with _you_.”

“I know. I know that.”

“Then why you're askin'?”

Rick leans back with a sigh. “Because it's about Alexandria,” he says quietly, “And we're going to war for it. Don't see how you want to fight a war over something you don't even feel comfortable with. I don't see how you'd want to risk anything for it.”

“Cause ya'll like it there.” Daryl gets up, blinking down at his blanket with a longing he's surprised he's able to muster.

“You shouldn't risk your life for something only others want,” Rick says, but he shakes his head before he's even finished. “That's stupid, of course you do. I'd do the same. It still ain't right, Alexandria is supposed to be your home, too.”

“Jesus, what do you want me to say?” Daryl stares down at his friend, fisting his hands and hiding it by shoving them in his pockets, suddenly reminded of the talk he had with Abe after—

Settled, he had said. Shit ain't settled, and shit ain't settled now either. It's just the way things are. If they weren't fucking settled when Rick and Michonne played house, things won't _ever_ be settled.

“Daryl.” Rick is in front of him, mouth pulled into a flat line. “I don't want you to say anything, I want you to try- No. I want you to feel- Christ.”

This is absurd.

Daryl scoffs. “We done soon? Any more of this and I gotta change my name to Darlena for real.”

Rick grins, sheepish. “Okay, that was awful. But I had to try.”

“If you say so.” Finally sitting down on his makeshift bed, Daryl reaches for the hem of his shirt just when Rick plops down next to him, opening his mouth with a look on his face that says he's not done at _all_. Daryl glares, stalling his movement.

“No, go on,” Rick says with an awkward gesture. “I just want to ask one last thing. If you're okay with that.”

Daryl watches him, face warm and thoughts too diffuse to make sense of them. “You ain't lookin' like I can stop you,” he says eventually. He pulls off his shirt and lies down at once, scars pressing against the rough blanket.

“When you told me about taking your stuff over to Aaron's-” Rick stops and lies down, staring at the ceiling. Somehow, it's much easier to breathe like this, and then Rick lowers his voice and Daryl stops breathing altogether. “Did you think that when I said 'our house'... Did you think I only meant my actual family and Michonne?”

He didn't think shit. That's what it meant, it wasn't a damn interpretation. Daryl swallows, staying silent for a lot of reasons and one of them is the fear of his voice breaking when he opens his mouth. Outside, Tara laughs at something, closing his throat up further, and even without looking at Rick, he's so close he can smell the dried blood on his clothes, the light breeze of the lake on his skin, his hair. 

“Cause I didn't,” Rick whispers, and then he fumbles around until Daryl looks over, seeing his fingers pressing down over his belly.

“How's the wound?”

“Itches like it has no business to. I guess that means it's healing.” Rick turns on his side, not even pretending he ain't staring at him, eyes weird and the room too dark to make out the look on his face, at this angle. Under the damn beard.

Heat rises in his cheeks, joining a shiver on his arms. Ain't right thinking about _that_ with Rick being so close he could touch if he reached out. Which he ain't gonna do.

“It's almost closed, I can take care of it myself from now on.”

Somehow, that stings. “Was no trouble.”

“I know it wasn't. You're taking good care of me.”

Daryl scoffs, planning to make a joke about the words and then he doesn't, skin too tight all of a sudden.

“When's the last time you got some rest? You're tired, you should get some sleep. Let me take watch tonight.” Rick's breath flows over his face, smelling like meat and fire and smoke, and his heart skips a beat, just like that.

“You don't have to,” he says, turning his head just for a moment to look over, but then Rick is too close, and he looks back up at the ceiling. Or maybe he closes his eyes, he ain't sure yet. “Tara and Rosita can do it.”

“They're tired, too.” He's warm, lying so close. Not that he's cold, but he is shirtless—he should cover himself up. Fumbling, Daryl pulls over his chest, sniffing when some disturbed dust or dirt tickles in his nose.

Rick breathes in the silence, weirdly unmoving. “You liked the arrows?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I'm gonna take watch.”

Daryl squints, catching Rick's wrist when he tries to turn away. “How's that make sense?”

“Cause I want to.” Rick makes a sound in the dark, either a huff or a groan, sounding like he's fed up even though he literally didn't do anything. “Ain't no reason you should do all the heavy lifting.”

There's no air.

“Sleep.” Sitting up, Rick looks down at him, face in the shadows. His arm comes up, patting the hand he somehow still curls around Rick's arm. Daryl withdraws, fingers tingling, and closes his eyes. It's been goddamn years since that—that quote, and now he feels jittery with it, vague thoughts rising just like back then, back at the farm with all the possibilities around him, barely a handful of them crushed yet.

The door closes with a soft click and Daryl turns on his side, curling into himself without feeling bad, just to lie more comfortably. It still ain't exactly comfortable, but if he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the warmth Rick left behind him, lingering.

 


	14. Chapter 14

His back hurts and hair tickles his nose, and the second his vision clears, Rick says, “I should've seen it earlier. I have no idea why I didn't.” He sits a foot away, his back against the wall and knees drawn up, looking at him like they've been having a conversation for the last minutes.

Which he would be aware of, hopefully.

“What,” Daryl croaks, clearing his throat and glancing about. Tara and Rosita are nowhere in sight, and when he listens for a moment, he can't hear their voices either.

Rick laughs, a rough and breathless sound. “Can you believe how long it's been?”

“Rick.” Daryl licks his lips, tasting gross, and pulls the blanket over his chest, uncomfortable in the harsh light without his shirt. Not that Rick seems to notice, busy as he is staring at his forehead. And not answering. While wearing his bloody clothes from the day before. “I have no idea what you're talkin' about,” he says, slow and clear in case Rick lost it again.

“Remember back in Atlanta?” Rick whispers, eyes dropping to focus somewhere on the floor. “God, it's been so long. It's been that long.”

Shifting against the panic creeping up, screaming at him about Rick having found out, about Rick _knowing_ because—he saw him at the lake. That ain't even making sense, but Rick figured something out, and if he's looking that brand of crazy about it, it can't be good. “Feels longer than it actually was,” Daryl offers, pretending they're talking about the end of the word instead of—that other thing.

“Do you know what I said to Maggie when she wanted to fight?” Rick stares at him like he actually waits for an answer, and Daryl draws a blank, barely keeping up with the time jump.

“Feel free to start makin' sense any second now.”

Rick nods, eyes big. “I said 'they have Daryl'.”

They stare at each other.

“They don't have you anymore,” Rick says, and from one second to the next, he's crawling forward until his knee bumps against his leg. The blanket is trapped underneath him, and there ain't no way he can get up without either flashing his chest or his scars. He has to stay where he is, forced to listen to Rick's crazy rambling.

“You're not makin' sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Rick says. “You came back, you always do. I didn't know that before—or I knew, but I didn't know it with my _mind_.”

“Really?”

“I didn't think you being away was a possibility.”

Daryl moves to roll away, but Rick stops him with his hand on his arm, curling his fingers tight even when Daryl tries to shake him off. “That's bullshit,” he forces out to get the situation to move fucking forward. “In case it slipped your mind, man: I left before. You were all teary-eyed about it, too. Didn't think you'd forget about that.”

“I didn't.” Rick glares for a moment, then he looks down at his hand and loosens his fingers, but instead of withdrawing, he slides them down, callouses catching on scars and rough hair and dried blood caught between them until he's takes his hand. It's warm. And dry. “You're not gonna die on my watch.”

Daryl swallows, itching to flex his fingers and weirdly self-conscious about Rick looking at his hand so closely even though it's just a goddamn hand. He's sporting a naked chest and here he is, worrying about his hand. His face is warm. “I'm not dyin',” he says, licking his lips when it comes out too quiet.

Dragging his thumb over his palm, rough against rough, Rick rubs a neat circle while looking down at it with a serious face. “I remember when you came back with that,” he says, and Daryl doesn't need to see it to know he's talking about the ugly spot burned away by the cigarette. “I didn't know what to say to make you feel better. We were in a bad place, all of us, and I just didn't know what to do.” Rick sighs, gently brushing over the scar. “I don't think you would've let me, but I should've tried anyway. To let you know.”

“Know what?”

Rick looks up and moves their hands to his lap. “That I noticed. Not the burning, you hurting. I saw it and I think you thought no one did.”

It's going to come out as a whisper, so Daryl clears his throat as a precaution. “That before or after your speech about all of us bein' dead?”

Rick shakes his head. “Can't you just take it when I say it? Just hear what I'm saying to you.”

“I always hear you,” Daryl says, and then it's all too much, every last thing about it; the conversation, the touching, the topic. Rick's smell in his nose and the others so quiet as if they're not even close, meaning they're all alone out here in the woods. It's too comforting, raising something warm in his belly, something that wants to make itself way too comfortable. God, that feeling ain't even new, and go fucking figure what happened the last time he became aware of it: nothing. Not a damn thing.

When he slips his hand from Rick's grip, the man sighs. “You heard me? I saw you back then and I'm seeing you now.”

“Yeah. All right.” Fucking stalking him while he thinks he's having some private time, that's what he does.

“You're not gonna die, I won't allow it.”

Daryl scoffs and turns away, folding his legs underneath himself to stand up, but then he remembers Rick is trapping the blanket and he's already too exposed with the turn of conversation, standing half-naked before Rick - and he will fucking look, Rick always looks now - it ain't gonna happen. He hangs his head instead, avoiding Rick's eyes as good as he can.

“Do you know what would happen?”

“I'd be dead, Rick. Happens to the best of us.” The blanket is rough under his fingertips. Pretty dirty too, with sleeping on the floor for days. Daryl frowns, looking up again. “And you're not the ruler of death, you can't say shit like you won't allow it. Ain't somethin' that happens cause someone _allows_ it or not. It just happens.”

“I wouldn't-”

No goddamn fucking way. “No,” he says, feeling proud enough to finally stand up. He's shivers in the cold air, not checking whether Rick looks at him. Too much, too something he doesn't know what to do with. The second he's done buttoning up his shirt, Rick's boots shuffle in his line of sight and Daryl looks up with a sigh. “You know you're always talkin' shit now? You didn't use to do that. Wouldn't have gotten far if you'd always talked up a load of bullshit instead of sayin' what you mean.”

“Liked me better when I was saying less?”

“No, I liked you better when you made sense.” Daryl bends to put on his shoes, heartbeat loud in his ears. “Every damn day you spring some kind of talk onto me I have no business of knowin' or understandin'-”

“I'm not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Daryl stands, squaring his shoulders, righteous and sad and hot and close to the verge of—something. “It's like that 'brother' talk all over again. You're just not makin' sense, Grimes.”

When he leaves the cabin, Rick follows.

Tara and Rosita are nowhere in sight. Of course they ain't.

“I'm sorry,” Rick says from behind him, and his voice is weird enough Daryl almost turns back to him, but his nerves are too frayed, he ain't sure what would happen if he saw something else on Rick's face. Something that means he can't leave now, because that's what he's gotta do. Get some fresh air— _fresher_ air, to get a clear fucking head again.

“Gonna go, I'll be back later.” Steps follow after him, then they skid to a stop and—jog away. And back again. Daryl blinks at the crossbow in Rick's hand and the arrows in his other. Grinding his teeth, he takes both, glancing towards the trees.

“I'm sorry,” Rick says again. “I should've known it was too much. Or too fast. I didn't mean to overwhelm you, all right? I just-”

“You're doin' it again,” Daryl says quietly, body twitching towards the trees without his input, tired as if he'd been running around all day instead of just getting out of bed. Emotional shit tends to do that.

“I'm sorry.” It sounds final, so Daryl nods, sucking his lip between his teeth and turning away. This time, Rick doesn't follow him, but he hears his quiet voice nonetheless. “Take some time, just- I'll be here, later.”

*

Halfway to Alexandria, Daryl knows several things.

First: the arrows are perfect, both for walkers, easily piercing their skulls, and for squirrels too, running through the small animals and into the bark behind them without losing so much as a splinter. At least for short distances, until he gets some fletching. For now, they'll do.

Second: he forgot to bring water with him, but since he would've stomped off without his crossbow if it weren't for Rick, that's gotta be expected. And something he should thank Rick for, possibly. Later.

And also: Maggie asked for archery lessons and instead of fleeing there to be at least somewhat useful, he's trotting back to Alexandria as if there's anything _for_ him there. There goddamn ain't. Maybe he'll visit Carol, talk to her for a while. Sit with her. She's calming, but she also wants to have a talk. Maybe it can wait for a bit, at least until—something changed.

Whatever that will be, but something needs to change, something has to happen. He feels it in his bones, it's about to _come_.

Maybe it's just fucking Negan. Or maybe it's Dwight and he gets to kill him, and if nothing else, he's at least gonna get his vest back.

He broods the rest of the way, shooting another walker and getting his hands bloody, and then he's finally at the gates and met with too many wide eyes, glaring at all of them until they scurry off to do whatever they did before. Naturally, Carol catches him before he's even close to one of the houses, rushing up to him with a worried expression until her face turns soft and the line on her forehead smooths out to crinkle around her eyes. It's a good look, and with a rush, he notices he missed her.

“For for a minute I thought something happened. It's not nice to give a lady a start like that,” she says, stepping up to link their arms. “But it's good to see you.”

Daryl scoffs, face warm. “What makes you think nothin' happened?”

“I know you,” she states, rolling her eyes. “Did you have breakfast? Carl is making some eggs, they should be ready in a few.”

“Sounds good.” It comes out quiet, without his permission.

Carol sighs in a drawn out way, glancing up and down the street before she pulls him to a stop. “You look like shit,” she says, frowning. “I told you that you shouldn't come.”

Daryl fixes his eyes on the door of the house, a mighty urge to gnaw at his lips rising in him. “Been a while since then,” he says, shrugging. “Guess I thought I should come by, see what's up.”

“Nothing's up.” Carol cranes her neck to catch his gaze. “Something did happen, didn't it? But nothing bad?”

“Nothin' happened,” he says, drawing away from her. “Just wanted to take a walk, is all.”

She lets go of him and they climb the steps to the house, closing the door and shutting out the early-morning activities going on all around them. Something sizzles in the kitchen and Daryl follows the sound, inhaling the smell of cooking eggs.

At the stove, Carl waves, then his expression changes and he looks one-eyed and sad, the corners of his mouth pulling down and line appearing between his eyebrows—

“Rick's fine,” Daryl hurries out. “He's back- He's still there, nothin' happened.”

Carl frowns. “I didn't think so,” he says and looks over at Carol, gesturing with the spatula. She takes it while Carl walks over to him. “You all right?”

In the back of his head, the idea of fleeing rises like an insistent itch. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come here if all he gets is more damn talking instead of a bit of peace for his mind.

Carl hugs him.

It's awkward, and after a few seconds of blinking stupidly, Daryl pats his back and wrinkles his nose against the hair in his face. “All right, kid,” he says, shoving him away by the shoulders and taking a step back. “Everythin' good here, too?”

Carl nods. “The barricades are going up this morning, and we've got some more people coming over from the Kingdom to stay in case we got hit here first-”

“Who's hungry? Daryl, ready for some eggs?”

They look at Carol's smiling face, her hand clutched tightly around the spatula.

She makes them sit down and eat in silence, and Daryl clamps his mouth shut around a moan trying to break free just for the sake of eating something that ain't a berry or meat he had to hunt himself. And this way, he doesn't have to think about Carol not wanting Carl to tell him about the progress.

When they're done, Carl sits back and looks at Judith, reaching out to wipe her face. “Do you want to take her for the day?” he asks, and Carol doesn't answer, so Daryl glances up, fork half-way to his mouth. He blinks, suddenly overwhelmed with the possibility of walking that huge long way with a toddler in his arm and a herd swarming them and eating them both and then Rick finding their bodies—

“No way,” he forces out, and then he backpedals in case he misunderstood. “I'm not stayin' for long enough.”

Apparently, Carol understood just fine. “I took her,” she reminds him. “I have no doubt she will be safe with you.”

“What if she ain't?” The mere thought is enough for horror to creep up his back and he feels like it's poisoning the room too, making Judith look at him with a mighty frown on her face. “She's just a _kid_ ,” he stresses.

They're silent until Carl huffs, rolling his eye. Daryl frowns, catches Carol's eyes, and jerks his head towards the kitchen door.

She follows him into the hallway, head cocked and towel in her hands like she's back to being just another housewife instead of the most efficient of them all. “This doesn't sound like you, Daryl,” she says the second the door closes behind them, and then she raises her hand, stalling his answer. “I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, but there has to be a reason you're here and since you don't want to tell me what that is, I have to assume you're feeling a bit lonely out there. Maybe Rick, too?”

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Daryl shrugs. “'m not lonely,” he states, briefly glancing at her. “Don't think Rick ain't either. But I didn't ask him.”

“Okay.”

“You wanna have the talk now?”

She smiles with that line on her forehead. “No, Daryl. I'm asking whether you want to take Judith for the day. I would come by later to pick her up, no need for you to go all the way twice in one day. The talk - we're going to have that later. I told you there's no rush.”

“None of you make sense anymore. Makes me wonder about ya'll eating the same poisoned mushrooms or somethin'.” She doesn't answer, and Daryl glares. “Fine, I take her.”

Her hand comes up to his shoulder, resting with barely any pressure. God, she's so small and fragile, he's like a mountain beside her. Maybe she's right. If she did it, he can do it too.

“I'm sure she missed you a great deal,” Carol says, smiling before her eyes dart behind him. “Listen, I know I've said it before, but please don't come back?”

“Yeah, you said that before.” He licks his lips. “Didn't make sense before either.”

“Promise me. Daryl, can you do that?”

Stalling, Daryl looks about, rolling his shoulder under the light weight of her hand. “Why?” he asks at length, though he ain't sure he wants to know the answer.

She looks behind him again, towards the staircase. “Because you need time. You've been around Rosita, right? Seen the changes? That's what I want for you, and you're not there yet.”

“But I'm-” He cuts himself off, dumbfounded. “Ain't for _me_ ,” he stresses, “We're out in the middle of fuck all cause Rick's losin' it.”

“Hon, he isn't.” Carol's mouth is a flat line, and then she nods and rounds him to go back into the kitchen. By the time he makes himself stop blinking, she comes back out with Judith in her arms and Carl at her heels. “I'll be upstairs for a minute, pack some of her things.”

Daryl takes Judith and lets himself be herded towards the front door, still trying to process what her comment was about. What's that supposed to mean, Rick 'isn't'. He sure as shit _is_. He made arrows, for fuck's sake, and he said the same words over and over while staring at a goddamn tree. If anyone's losing it, it's Rick.

“Mh,” Judith says.

Carl huffs out a laugh, leaning against the wall as if he's getting comfortable watching him or some shit. “So, I have a question,” he says, raising his eyebrow and generally looking like trouble.

For good measure, Daryl glares. Then he nods, adjusting his grip on the small body in his arm.

“I tried to imagine it, but I don't get it. What are you doing out there?” Carl pauses, then he holds up his hands, looking alarmed. “I don't need to know the details but - doesn't it get boring? What _are_ you doing all day?”

“Leave him be,” Carol says, walking down the stairs with a small backpack in her hand.

“I was just asking, not forcing answers out of him at gunpoint.”

Carol scoffs and fumbles until Judith allows - while pulling a face - her backpack to be slung over her small shoulders. She doesn't look impressed, and Carol ain't either. “You know how he is,” she says, looking back over her shoulder.

Carl snorts and Daryl huffs, turning away. “If you're all done here, I'm gonna go. You know, instead of listenin' to you talking about me like I'm simpleminded or somethin'.”

“Nobody's thinking that,” Carol says, smiling brightly. “Now, do you need anything else? Food maybe, water? I've got some cookies.” She doesn't wait for his answer and bustles towards the kitchen again, leaving him with Carl staring at him like he's the most interesting thing he's seen all day. Maybe he is, it's still goddamn morning.

“These arrows look new.”

Daryl hums, angling his face away when Judith starts to grab his hair. “Rick made them,” he says without actually meaning to. Embarrassed, he glances away in case Carl sees anything on his face that he got no business seeing.

“You should've seen it. Man, he was focused like he was defusing bombs.” Rosita comes down the stairs, looking fresh and amused. Healthy somehow. Tara walks after her, smiling and cheeks red and hair wet and—

“Really?” he says, also without meaning to.

Rosita stops at the bottom of the stairs with an unfriendly look on her face. Behind her, Tara rolls her eyes and steps up next to her, taking Rosita's hand with such a slow movement even Rosita has enough time to prepare herself. She still looks grumpy though, and a bit uncomfortable, but she doesn't pull her hand away.

Something is stuck in his throat. He stares at them, first confused and then with a blind panic rising. Is this jealousy, good fucking Lord, when did that happen, he never—no way.

“What?” Rosita says, glaring.

Daryl shrugs, focusing on the door to the kitchen and willing Carol to come out with whatever she's packing in there for goddamn hours. Or minutes, who knows. Hell of a lot of people in here, suddenly. He sucks his lip between his teeth and adjusts his grip on Judith.

“I'll wait outside,” Tara says softly.

He doesn't look over, giving them the pretense of privacy and feeling quite proud when the door closes behind her with a harsh click and he ain't even flinching.

“Spit it out.”

Rosita stands in front of him. The room is empty, Carl's gone to wherever, Tara outside, Carol in the kitchen—

“You said you were,” he says and clears his throat. “I don't get it.”

Crossing her arms, Rosita pulls a face so uncomfortable he feels like recoiling physically. So he does. “Are you talking about the girl-thing or the thing with me in general?”

“I- what?”

“I always liked girls,” she states, eyebrows high. “Doesn't mean I needed to share that particular info without a reason. You know.”

“That ain't what I was- You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Rosita looks at him until her face loses some of the harshness, turning softer without actually changing anything of her expression. She sighs. “All right, you don't actually know. God, Daryl, if you want to know something, use your words. Tara is waiting and we're expected in Hilltop by midday.”

Looking down at Judith's hand tangling in a too-long strand of hair, Daryl gnaws on his lip and forces himself to say it. “You said you wanted to die.”

“That changed,” she says, slow like she can't grasp the concept of him not understanding. “Just because I felt like that doesn't mean I have to want it forever, you know. The world's moving on and I had to, too. Listen, Daryl, I made a decision and right after I decided not to die, everything was easier. We don't have time for endless- What you're doing out there, it's the limit. We don't get more of it, that's not how the world works anymore. So right after I made the decision, I looked for something to help me stay alive instead of something that reminds me of the other way because—that didn't go away. It won't ever, I think. The alternative is still there, and if things go south again, I reserve the right to change my mind again.”

He's quiet for a moment, trying to process her words and failing. It's a lot. Maybe too much, but he's gotta try, he never heard her talk for that long with anyone. “The decision ain't definite?” he rumbles, “But that'd hurt Ta-”

“No,” she cuts in, glancing at the door and uncrossing her arms. “I don't think about that. It's _my_ decision and I won't depend on someone else like I did with Abe. And I'm not saying this is the right way.” She pauses to catch his eyes. “It's _my_ way, I don't know if it works for you. You can try or you don't, but for me, it worked.”

They stand in silence, and it doesn't feel as uncomfortable as before even though his head is swimming with thoughts. “Thanks,” he says at length. Then he clears his throat and heaves Judith on his other arm. “For tellin' me,” he adds awkwardly, buit Rosita is already rolling her eyes, obviously glad that part of the conversation is over.

“Yeah, whatever. If you want to come with us, we gotta go now.”

Carol comes through the door, backpack in her hand and face weird, and Daryl's stomach sinks at once, torn between hiding behind his hair and simply leaving. She heard it all and she'll think that he—

“I packed food, water, and some of the cookies I made the day before,” she says while rounding him to hang the backpack over his free shoulder. Then she picks up his crossbow and hands that over, too. “I'll come by later, pick her up?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, shaking his hair out of his face and inching towards the front door. She follows to give Judith a kiss on her forehead, and then she leans in further and kisses his cheek, too.

“Have a nice day,” she says with a look like she's sending him out to school for the first time; proud and sad at the same time.

Daryl turns, hurrying towards where Tara waits on the porch.

They leave. Judith is getting heavy on the way, starting to squirm on the half-hour mark, and his arm feels heavy and Tara and Rosita exchange cut-off sentences, not bothering him at all, not even looking at him, only when a walker comes near and they take it out without hesitating.

A few minutes away from the cabin, they take their leave, and Daryl heaves a big breath, mind set on not letting his thoughts wander free until Judith is safe and sound at the cabin and he has time to—decide.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Rick sits in front of the cabin. Changed out of his bloody clothes, he looks cleaner even from afar, and his face breaks out in a smile when he sees them walking over. It's so damn worth it to see that look on Rick's face, Daryl forgets all about his aching arm and the warmth in his cheeks.

“That's what I call a surprise,” Rick says when he's close enough. His voice is soft, eyes flickering from Judith to his face and back again. It should be hard to tell under the massive beard he insists on growing, but somehow and with too much clarity, he knows this is Rick's real smile.

Daryl flexes his fingers, making Judith crane her neck to look at him, and his face heats up even more. “Wanna take her?”

Carefully, Rick lifts her from his arms, brushing against him and not drawing back.

They stay close while the sun beats down on them, birds chirp and Judith bubbles out a laugh when Rick pokes a finger in her belly, and suddenly there's something in his throat, or maybe it's in his chest. It feels constricting, a bit like someone wrapped a vice around his heart or some shit, and now that someone pulls it tight, working the screw until he takes a staggering step back.

On the porch, he drops his backpack and leans his crossbow against the wooden post, taking a bit more care with the arrows while the stupid vice doesn't let up for a second. It's hard to breathe, squeezing his lungs so tight he has to stay bent over, hands on his knees and eyes forced shut when a weird panic rises in him.

“Hey.” Rick rushes closer and there ain't no smile on his face anymore, and Judith looks stricken and—

If it weren't for the end of the world, he never would've met them. Any of them. This, right here and now, _never_ would've happened. He'd be in his shitty trailer or on his way to the station, picking Merle up from lockup, being at the machine shop down the road, earning a few bucks. Maybe one of those days, Rick would've stopped him and checked his license. Maybe he would've pulled him over for drinking and driving when he wouldn't _have_ been drinking and driving, a suspect just because he looks the part. Redneck trash, druggie brother in jail. He probably wouldn't have made it past fifty, none of the men in his family did. It's tradition.

Somehow, he's standing upright. Rick's hand is between his shoulder blades and the touch feels more intimate than it is, or maybe it's the other way around. Breathing is hard, but it's coming, and Judith is blinking up at him, tiny fist curled around the strap of her backpack and face curious, and no one would've let him anywhere near her without all of these things happening. The goddamn dead had to rise from their graves for him to get a chance at- at—

“Fuckin' shit.” He jerks away to get some distance between them, and thankfully, Rick lets him focus on breathing, in and out and in and out until his head clears again, stupid thoughts reining themselves back in until they seem harmless and inoffensive. Like they _should_ , they had no business breaking free in the first place.

When he turns back around, Rick sits on his chair with Judith on his leg bouncing up and down, frowning and smiling at the same time. The man notices him looking almost right away and glances over with a serious face. “You hungry?”

Dumbfounded, Daryl clamps his mouth shut around the excuses he was ready to fire off. “Nah,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to get his bearings again. “Had some eggs. Carl made them. He looks good, they're good.”

Rick nods and turns his eyes back on Judith. “And the rest?”

A bit more comfortable, Daryl moves to sit and leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He keeps his eyes on Judith, feeling warmth spread through him. “Didn't talk much to no one,” he admits even though no one asked him, and then he fails to be ashamed about it. “Carol said they're raisin' some kind of barricades, and Tara and Rosita are on their way to Hilltop to help out there. Said they're gonna be back later.”

Humming, Rick lifts Judith up, making her stand on his legs and blowing a kiss on her belly, and Daryl relaxes back in his seat.

Time flies, somehow.

The sun starts to set and Rick makes him pluck a few berries, and after, he makes him wash them off before he allows Judith to eat them. That stupid gesture warms his heart to a degree he wouldn't have thought possible, and Daryl finds himself frowning with the stress of it all. This day has been going on for way too long and with way too many discussions and thoughts and talks. He's tired.

“You're quiet,” Rick says, also quiet. Judith fiddles with one of her plastic shovels while piling up leaves with a concentrated frown on her face.

“Long day.”

“Only that?” Rick asks softly.

“My mind is kinda reelin',” he says, shrugging. There's a stain on his fingers and he rubs at it, smearing through some kind of dirt he has no knowledge of obtaining. “Guess I'm tired.”

A twig snaps and for a moment, they keep still, watching the trees. “You know how much it helped me that you brought me out here?” Rick says, hand hovering over Judith's shoulder while he looks around.

“Ain't nothin' there, man.”

Rick nods, licking his lips. “It helped a great deal. I don't think I said it yet, but I've meant to say it for a while.” He waits, catching his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Wanna send my mind reelin' some more?”

Rick breathes out a laugh, sounding sweet enough Daryl glances over to see him wiping his wrist over his mouth like he wants to cover it up. Which would be a shame.

“You workin' your way up to say somethin'? You got that look about you.”

Rick sits still, then he cocks his head and looks at him, absentmindedly fingering his beard. “I am,” he says.

It's going to rain.

Daryl looks up, squinting at the clouds. Something loosens in his chest at the mere thought of this day ending with rain. Finally something that feels right. This ain't a damn fairy tale, he's glad whoever watches over them gets it. This is the end of the world, not a happily ever after.

“We can't stay much longer,” Rick says, quiet enough to make him look over again.

“You okay with that?”

“Are _you_ okay with that?”

A tremor builds up, gentle but getting stronger, and Rick looks up with sharp eyes before he grinds his teeth. “We're gonna stay a few more days. I think that's for the best.”

“You just said-”

Rick rubs his over beard again and his other hand comes up to stop him from talking. “Don't feel too hot yet,” he says, suddenly nodding. “Yeah, a few more days should do it.”

It's a lie, and Daryl sags back into his chair with a sigh.

*

When Carol arrives to pick up Judith, a weariness creeps up inside of him that's uncalled-for, and Rick keeps shooting him glances, but he also keeps shooting glances at Tara and Rosita sitting by the side of the hut and quietly debating a Hilltopper named Sven and his natural talent for shooting stuff.

Good for him, though he also overheard them not being too fond of taking watch, and Tara insists on either both of them taking watch or neither—which is cute and all, but if he has to stay up tonight - since Rick took watch the night before - he ain't sure he'd be of help defending anyone, let alone sleeping people.

He snaps out of his dull thoughts when Carol hugs Rick, a short and tight affair, before she bends down to pick up Judith with a smile reserved for those under the age of five. Come to think of it, sometimes she looks at him like that, too.

Daryl glares at her.

She nods, smiling like a sane person.

“Daryl,” Rick says.

Groaning probably more heartfelt than the situation deserves, Daryl shakes his head and presses his thumbs against his eyes. “My head's about full, 'm sorry.”

There's a pause.

“That's fine,” Rick says, voice low. “I'll get a fire going.”

With a few nice words and a yawning Judith in her arms, Carol leaves.

Daryl follows her with his eyes until she disappears behind a big tree, then he leans foward and lets his head hang, not too proud of himself when he hears the others starting to work on the fire. He's too exhausted to feel ashamed about sitting on his ass, but he tries to force his mind into action to do at least something productive. Which means thinking about the option Rosita presented him with.

If it can be called an option. It should be a no-brainer, and yet.

He knows these attacks have to stop, and he also knows that he was never good at dealing with emotional shit, but now his inability has reached new terrifying heights. What he doesn't know: if deciding to live - while never actually deciding not to - would change anything.

The fire begins to crackle and the sun sinks low enough to hide behind the crowns of the trees, and on the other side of the porch, Rick talks with both Tara and Rosita in a quiet voice. Tara's eyebrows are drawn up to her hairline, Rosita's are pulled into a single line, and Rick's hip is cocked to the side, fingers curled around the sharp bone and jeans pulled tight. They always did. Even in the apocalypse, that man somehow never lost his sense of style.

Rick looks back over his shoulder without stopping with saying whatever he's saying, and Daryl can't muster the energy for his cheeks to fill with blood, but he imagines they would. Rightfully so. Here he sits, looking at the way Rick manages to find fitting jeans while _he_ looks like he's wearing a sack of potatoes at all times—while trying to decide whether living is worth it. Maybe the goddamn cell broke his mind after all. Dwight, the fucker.

Add Negan to that, the fucklord.

Or hell, fuck the other option that hasn't come up for a few days, but he ain't gonna dismiss it so soon. He has yet to prove if this current shitshow is real. How long can one hallucinate for? Surely there's gotta be a limit, and the more time passes, the more improbable it becomes that he's making everything up. He guesses.

Somehow, his hands are shaking and they don't stop until Rick goes into the cabin and his heart picks up speed, just like that. Not a minute later, Rick comes back out and marches straight past Tara and Rosita sitting at the other end of the porch, backs against the wall and minding their own business so completely it's almost suspicious.

The smoke drifts upwards, curling nicely, and the breeze takes away the bite from his face while still warming him, and then Rick comes to a stop in front of him. Something is in his hands, shaped like cans. Daryl blinks at it before he lifts his gaze, barely able to make out Rick's face with the man standing between him and the fire.

“You hungry now?” Rick asks, holding out one of the cans with a smile he maybe doesn't imagine.

Daryl gapes. “That beans?”

“Pinto beans.”

He lets out a small sound, momentarily lost. “The hell did you get them? Ain't seen none since—” He was hiding with Maggie. There was a crate of it in Hilltop's basement.

Rick grins, turning away to heat up the cans.

“You went to Hilltop?” Daryl asks, still staring. “When?”

Lifting one of his shoulders in a shrug, Rick peels the lids back and fumbles with positioning them over the fire. “Earlier,” he says, sounding sheepish. “Didn't know when you'd be back and I thought- well.”

“You thought you'd go and scavenge some beans that happen to be my favorite.”

“Yep.”

The heat from the fire is a bit much and he hasn't even eaten yet. God, he's sweating already. “Rick, I-”

“I know, I know.” Rick stands, glaring, and shakes his fingers. Maybe he burned them. Daryl licks his lips, and Rick turns to him with a sigh. “No more talk today, I heard you. Let's just eat.”

They do, after a while.

Tara and Rosita stay on their side, and Daryl refrains from looking over in case they're doing something indecent like making out. Ain't no reason to see that. Each to their own and all, but no.

Somewhere along the way, maybe around his third spoonful of beans he thought he'd tasted the last of years ago, the decision ain't looking so much like a decision anymore. All of a sudden, it's a no-brainer like it should've been all along. Rick brought him his favorite food and Rick lets him sit in peace despite constantly talking in riddles. But Rick also grieves. He's grieving, and some time in the past week, he started taking care of him instead of the other way around, and it took him until now to realize it.

Over the fire, Rick's eyes look like they're burning. It's the reflection, but still, it ain't a bad look.

“It's good,” Rick says around a mouthful, voice quiet and intimate. Daryl averts his eyes, looking down at his own beans while his heart swells with something that wants to call itself a possibility. Like back at the farm, but this time, he wants it to stay. He _wants_ it.

“Daryl.” Rick's voice is down to a whisper, but the others should have a hard time catching their conversation anyway. “This is real.”

His heart skips a beat and then another right after, and then it starts to hammer in overtime, mouth going dry despite the food. He _remembered_. “Yeah,” he whispers back, and then he finishes his beans and doesn't say anything else. When he stands, he grips Rick's shoulder and squeezes, and then he goes inside, head swimming.

Possibilities, all right.

Shouldn't he have one of them attacks even thinking about it? But he ain't. There's nothing, just a slight shiver building up somewhere around his neck. He pulls off his shirt and boots and lies down, determined to not volunteer for watch until someone comes and outright asks him to do it.

No one does.

Rick comes in shortly later, sheds more clothes than reasonable, and lies down next to him, eyes turned towards the ceiling.

For a bit, they breathe in silence, and Daryl feels his limbs getting heavy with sleep. The decision is made and there's that—possibility, but there's also a thought that keeps nagging at him, so he clears his throat, half-hoping Rick might be asleep despite hearing his irregular breathing.

“What if,” he rumbles and clears his throat again, turning his head to look at Rick's profile. “What if the attacks don't stop?”

“The attacks?” Rick smells like beans, two of his favorite things right in front of him.

“When you said I ain't your brother, what did you mean?”

Rick smiles and this close, it's the most marvelous thing. Daryl looks away. “I thought you didn't want to talk anymore,” Rick says around the smile, and then they're quiet for a while. Outside, Tara laughs, but the crackle of the fire drowns out the rest of their chatter.

“I never had a real brother,” Rick says at length. “I had Shane. Then I lost him.”

The atmosphere shifts, and Daryl pulls his mouth to the side, unsure about the turn of topic. “I had Merle,” he states, and it's been long enough for the sting in his chest to be manageable.

“I didn't feel about Shane the way I do about you.”

Yeah, retreat. At once.

Trying to do it slowly, Daryl turns away with something like horror rising up in him because he's so pathetic. Behind him, Rick shifts.

“And I don't think these attacks won't stop. I know you said you don't want to talk about what happened in the ce- at the compound. I'm not asking you to do that. But you can, if you want to. I'd listen.” Rick breathes against his shoulder, raising goosebumps. “I think without talking about what happened, it's just a normal reaction. Your way of dealing with things.”

Daryl grunts, exposed and comfortable.

Rick scoots closer until he's right behind him without touching, and Daryl has to press his fist against his mouth to keep himself from scooting back the last inch. “And if it - for whatever reason - doesn't stop, then we'll deal with that, too,” Rick whispers. It sounds final, a bit dismissive like he either thinks it's impossible for the attacks to stay or like he ain't too keen on discussing the subject.

Steeling his nerves, Daryl says the last thing, the one thing that has been screeching through his mind for days, always bringing a wave of dread with it and leaving him cold. “I don't wanna be useless.”

Rick hums, sending vibrations through his skin. “Then don't.”

An entire mountain drops from his chest, so fast he's almost afraid he's gonna float away without the pressure keeping him grounded. “All right,” Daryl says, scooting back the last inch.

The blanket is rough against his back, and then it ain't, it's Rick's shirt instead, chest pressing right up against his scars. He closes his eyes.

 


End file.
